


The Voice of Dibella

by thelightofmorning



Series: Legacy of the Aurelii [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Multi, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Slavery, Slut Shaming, Suicide, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 54
Words: 71,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: "Dibella says: Open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love."When Alduin descends upon Skyrim, intent on restoring His ancient dominion over mortalkind, everyone begins to pray for a mighty warrior who will lay the World-Eater low. That includes Aurelia Ink-Fingers, a Dibellan scribe and illuminator dispatched to the northern province as both a means of exile and to shut the local clergy up about being neglected.Their prayers aren't exactly answered. Because she's the Dragonborn.Somehow, she doesn't think Alduin's going to stop by for a little behavioural therapy and see the error of His ways...And contrary to popular belief, the Dibellan Arts have their limits, even if she actually practiced them.Dibella help them all.
Relationships: Birna/Female Dragonborn, Brynjolf/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Farkas, Galmar Stone-Fist/Ulfric Stormcloak, Njada Stonearm/Original Male Character(s), Suvaris Atheron/Original Male Character
Series: Legacy of the Aurelii [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617004
Comments: 274
Kudos: 114





	1. A Debt Paid

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, slavery, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death. On to the AUs!

The children who survived the fall of Cloud Ruler Temple and the purge of Bruma were gathered in by the combined Temples of Cyrodiil as to both protect them from the political consequences of their parents’ choices and to replenish a greatly depleted clergy. The Vigilance of Stendarr, the Benevolence of Mara and the Resolution of Zenithar got first pick as remnant Daedra still stalked the wild lands of Cyrodiil, the survivors of the Great War looked to be afflicted with both famine and pestilence, and many hands would be needed to rebuild the Imperial Province over the next few decades. Other orders picked over the leftovers to fill mundane and menial roles that were necessary but not particularly influential while most of what remained was dispatched to the Imperial Workhouse to be sorted out. There was one who remained, a politically problematic child, that no one was quite sure what to do with yet could not dispose of ethically, morally or legally.

“If I didn’t owe you a favour,” Carmen Dulce complained to her companion as they traversed the ruined streets of the Imperial City, their conversation low against a background of foremen directing labourers with language as obscene as it was pithy.

“I’d call in one from the Benevolence or the Resolution,” was Irkand’s reply. Short for a Redguard with a stocky frame, his round, beak-nosed face was pleasant enough until one met the dark, fathomless gaze of a man comfortable with death and all its ways. The High Prelate of Arkay had snapped up his service and made him a Knight of the Circle to channel the merciless skill of a Blades assassin into removing the necromancers and undead who’d risen during the Great War. So far as Carmen was concerned, Arkay could keep the man for all he’d saved her life two years ago.

“And you think Ferro or Mercy would help you?” she asked.

“Yes. Callaina has many talents that would be wasted, even suppressed, in the Imperial Workhouse.” Irkand sighed and shook his head. “I could kill my father myself for what he has done. Too many good people have died and will suffer for his actions.”

Carmen allowed herself an inelegant grunt. “The Emperor won’t be happy if the House of Dibella takes her in.”

“So keep her away from the cults that revere women or erotic instruction,” Irkand suggested acerbically. “Callaina has a quick wit and hand, even if she is sickly. Put her with the scribes or the clerks.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“I won’t be able to protect her, not with the list of targets I’ve been given by the High Prelate of Arkay. So yes, I’ve considered as much as I can with the little time I have. Do this and we are even.”

Carmen grunted again. The High Prelate of Dibella had demanded she honour the life-debt… and shown the letter with the Sybil’s own seal on it as proof. Whatever the Goddess would want with the half-barbarian child of a traitor, only She and the Sibyl knew.

The refurbished warehouse that housed all the Temple novices was spartan, furnished with pallets, trestle tables and benches salvaged from Legion barracks, areas divided by lengths of sackcloth hanging from wire. Novices in plain brown tunics and sandals ran around, subdued and with downcast gazes, under the calm authority of Sister Mercy of the Benevolence of Mara. The Khajiit priest irritated Carmen with her easy assumption of authority better suited to a Nibenese woman… but most of the senior clergy, even in the House of Dibella, were dead. The Thalmor had been… efficient… with those who refused to cooperate.

Carmen had cooperated to save her Temple. The local Quaestor had seen it as treason… and Irkand Aurelius had killed him to save her because his friend Tyr needed healing.

She would do this, find the most isolated and desolate place of Dibellan worship she could find, and send the girl there. Then her debt would be paid and her secret safe.

“Callaina is in the garden,” purred Mercy. “The fresh air and green things are good for her.”

“She’s going to the House of Dibella,” Carmen ordered. “Pack her things and be quick about it.”

“What is to pack? All she has left to her is the tanto and the Jewel of the Rumare,” Mercy said with a raised eyebrow. “The Thalmor were… _thorough_ … in sacking Cloud Ruler Temple.”

“Then fetch her here. I don’t have all day,” Carmen said crisply.

“The gardens are through that door,” Mercy drawled, pointing in the right direction. “Fetch her yourself, Sister Carmen. This one has children to supervise.”

Carmen ground her teeth, reminded herself that Mara and Dibella were sisters, and stalked into what was grandiosely called the gardens. A trio of children in novice tunics, one of them a gangly girl with cropped black hair who already towered over the others, were dribbling water into pots of herbs. “Aurelia Callaina, you’re coming with me. Get your things and meet at me at the door in five minutes.”

For a moment, as the too-tall girl looked up with admittedly beautiful blue-green eyes, Carmen swore they flashed red-green in the pupil like a predator. But she carefully put her terracotta jug down on a stone bench and walked silently into the warehouse. At least she was obedient.

Ten minutes later, they were walking towards the gate that led to Anvil. Carmen intended to wash her hands of the girl and be done with her, forever and aye. No matter what the Sybil said, this was going to be trouble.


	2. Chaos at Helgen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes and religious conflict.

“That was… a wyvern. A very large wyvern that’s gotten lost. That was not, nor never was, a fucking _dragon_!”

“It was a dragon,” Bjarni Ulfricsson drawled as the compact brunette paced around the foyer of Helgen Keep, throwing her hands – and a few choice obscenities – in the air. He’d have guessed her for a priest of some sort but Legion chaplains wore red-trimmed brown robes in coarse wool or linen, not fine cotton of plum, dusky rose and cream with bands of pale golden embroidery. Fingers stained a faint rainbow hue but too well dressed to be a simple clerk.

“Of course it’s a dragon. That would be the cherry on this shit cake!” she cursed.

“Secure the door. We don’t want those damned Stormcloaks escaping the dragon,” ordered the Imperial bitch who’d given the order to execute them all without trial. Pity it wasn’t Tullius.

Bjarni and Ralof moved into place, crouching by the door as the Cyrod and a goon unlocked it. Once she was through, he rose to his feet and drove his fist into her stomach, bending her over so that Ralof could split her skull with Gunjar’s iron axe. Then he threw the corpse at the stunned Legionary, knocking him to the ground for Ralof to finish off.

The brunette had gone from swearing to almost hyperventilating from shock.

“It’s okay, we won’t hurt you,” Ralof assured her gently. “No man – a sensible one at least – wishes to anger Dibella by harming Her priestesses.”

“Just follow us at a distance and you should be safe,” Bjarni said quietly.

Reluctantly, she obeyed and was treated to a tour of Imperial atrocities on the way. Bjarni and Ralof were reunited with some of Ulfric’s surviving personal guard, but there was no sign of his father. He could only hope for the best.

“Priestess of Dibella,” Ralof explained, jerking his thumb in the brunette’s direction.

“Only you could pick up a Dibellan in a dungeon crawling with Imperials,” laughed Torjon, one of the younger guards.

“I’m a scribe and illuminator!” snapped the woman. “Dibella’s more than just the goddess of sex, you know.”

“Can we discuss the exact nature of the gods later?” Bjarni asked as stones creaked alarmingly above. “I don’t think that dragon’s finished.”

Some spiders, one last squad of Imperials and a bear later, they were emerging from the caves beneath Helgen to see the big black beast fly away. “Looks like he’s gone for good this time,” Ralof said laconically.

“We better get going before Tullius regroups,” Bjarni added. “Do you think…?”

“It’ll take more than a dragon to kill your da,” Ralof assured him.

“That wasn’t just any dragon,” the priestess said, her olive-bronze skin ashen. “I think that was the World-Eater himself.”

Bjarni supposed a scribe would be more educated than the average Dibellan. She’d certainly thrown a Healing spell or two when the spiders nearly overwhelmed them and used Telekinesis to move boulders out of their path.

“That’s a bold claim to make,” Ralof said shakily. “Did Dibella tell you that?”

“I’m not the Sibyl, if that’s what you were asking,” was her answer. “Before I was given to the House of Dibella, I was the daughter of a Blade from Cloud Ruler Temple. I remember the stories old Esbern used to tell us about the end of days and the return of Alduin.”

“Well, Ulfric trained with the Greybeards at High Hrothgar, so he’ll be able to tell us plenty,” Ralof said with a sigh. “We need to warn Riverwood. My sister, Gerdur, runs the village as hetwoman. If you want, we can give you an escort that far.”

She grimaced as if she’d bitten a sour berry. “I’ll take it. The Temples need to be alerted and the Sibyl of Dibella consulted.”

“You could sound a little more enthusiastic about it,” Ralof drawled.

“I’m _sorry,_ Mr Stormcloak, dragons trying to tear down keeps around your head might be a usual occurrence for you but it’s been a rather hectic day for me,” was her sarcastic reply. “I was sent up here by the High Prelate of All Gods to create a set of illuminated scriptures for each of the major Temples. Dragons were not, I repeat, were not on my itinerary!”

Bjarni sighed. It was going to be a long walk to Riverwood. Whoever said Dibellans were sweetly spoken had obviously never met this woman…

…

“So you’re that visitor who’s been poking her nose around here.”

Aurelia Ink-Fingers paused as the innkeeper spoke in an atrocious attempt at a rural accent. Shorter than her, with a whip-lean body and sharp-jawed face, there was silver in her blonde hair and lines around her pale blue eyes. But it was Delphine Revanche. Twenty-five years hadn’t erased her memory from Aurelia’s mind.

“I’d have thought you’d be hacking off heads in the name of mighty Talos,” Aurelia observed acidly as she stepped back to allow the woman entrance into the room she’d hired for the night.

“I don’t understand-“

“Delphine, I might have been eight when I last saw you, but I _do_ remember the almighty row after Mother discovered you were fucking my father,” Aurelia interrupted wearily. “I just spent today being chased by a dragon and watching the Stormcloaks butcher several Legionaries I’d gotten to know over the past few days. So please do me the courtesy of sparing the bullshit.”

The Blade sighed and dropped the harmless innkeeper act. “Fine. But close the door. Orgnar can be trusted but the locals could wander in here anytime.”

Aurelia closed the door and laid a Muffle spell on it. “What are you doing in Skyrim?”

“You weren’t the only one who listened to old Esbern,” Delphine said grimly. “There’s a dragon burial map carved into a stone tablet up in the barrow overlooking Riverwood. I paid a couple bandits to steal the golden claw to the tomb and in a day or so, Balgruuf’s court wizard Farengar will hire some random sellsword to go fetch it for us.”

“Why can’t you get it yourself?” Aurelia asked, removing her outer robe but leaving the under-robe and chemise on.

“I need to have that one degree of separation. Being paranoid’s kept me alive this long,” Delphine told her. “As for going to the Stormcloaks… Your mother survived the Great War, got married to Ulfric Stormcloak and whelped a couple lads.”

Aurelia sat down abruptly on the bed. “I think I met one of them today. Big, sarcastic…”

“Bjarni, the eldest.” Delphine leaned against the door with a sigh. “Callaina, your mother pretended you never existed and that she went virgin to Ulfric’s bed. If she finds out you’re alive…”

“I’m a Dibellan scribe and illuminator,” Aurelia said softly. “I have absolutely no intentions of getting involved. That’s what the Dragonborn is for.”

“Dibellan, huh? Farengar’s the kind to blab to a pretty priestess-“

“I was kept very firmly away from practicing the Dibellan arts outside of the House of Dibella and the Order of the Lily,” Aurelia interrupted again. “You might have hidden from the Thalmor all this time, but I had to live with the knowledge the only reason I was kept alive was a combination of the Sibyl’s command and a personal threat to Titus Mede by the Madgoddess.”

Delphine, to her credit, blanched. “Callaina, I’m sorry…”

“It’s Aurelia. Aurelia Ink-Fingers.” She managed a crooked smile. “I’m going to head to Solitude and start work on my illuminations. I’m sure the gods will send along some hulking muscle-bound moron to kill Alduin.”

“You’re going to leave me to handle this on my own?”

“Why not? I had to for twenty-five years.”


	3. A Task Unasked For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

Compared to dragons, giants were rather prosaic, but that didn’t mean Aurelia wanted to get involved with one. Besides, the huge dark-haired man in the black-enamelled plate, his dark-haired Colovian friend and the redhead whose armour was little more than strategic leather straps and metal plates seemed to have it in hand. So she hurried along the road, feeling some sympathy for the farmer whose cabbage patch was getting torn up by the fight.

The stableman and his ginger-haired warrior friend were laughing about some fool with a cart and a coffin up the road, the guards were strolling around unconcernedly on the walls, and nothing but the wind disturbed the green-gold grass. If it wasn’t for the scorch marks on her vestments, she’d think yesterday had been a particularly vivid nightmare.

“Hold. The city’s not open because of the dragons,” said a guard as she neared the gate.

“I survived Helgen and I was asked by Gerdur, the hetwoman of Riverwood, to carry a warning to the Jarl of Whiterun,” Aurelia said, summoning all the serenity she could muster.

“Helgen? The Jarl will want to talk to you.” He unlocked the gate. “Be on your best behaviour. We’ll be watching you.”

“Thank you,” she answered and went inside.

Whiterun was at a level of prosperity nearly every town and city in Cyrodiil would envy. Even the beggar and resident orphan had more meat on their bones than most. Her robes drew curious glances or knowing smiles depending on who she passed but no one addressed her as she made her way through the marketplace, the town centre with its dead tree, and up to the palace that crowned it all.

Inside the grandiosely named Dragonsreach, Aurelia had a confused sense of imported luxury and Nord grandeur before she was confronted by a Dunmer with long red hair and a drawn sword. “Who let you in here?” she demanded. “The Jarl isn’t holding audiences today.”

“My name is Aurelia Ink-Fingers, Curate-Illuminator of the House of Dibella, and I’m carrying a message and request from Gerdur Ragnhildsdottir of Riverwood concerning the events at Helgen,” Aurelia said politely.

“ _You_ were at Helgen? Come on, the Jarl will want to speak to you.” The womer led Aurelia up to the dais where a rangy, still-handsome blond in his early middle years was arguing with a hook-nosed Niben-man.

“If you send troops to Riverwood and Rorikstead, the Jarls of Falkreath and the Reach will assume you’ve joined Ulfric’s side and are preparing to attack them,” protested the Niben-man in unctuous tones. “I suggest we wait and see-“

“Fuck Siddgeir and Igmund,” was the Jarl’s impatient reply. “I’ll not stand idly by and watch a dragon burn my Hold and slaughter my people!”

“I’ll see to it,” promised the womer. “But I have a Priestess of Dibella here who was at Helgen.”

“What was a Priestess of Dibella doing at Helgen?” the Jarl asked bluntly.

“En route to Solitude to make illuminated manuscripts for the major Temples of Skyrim at the behest of the High Prelate of All Gods,” Aurelia replied just as candidly, keeping her tone brisk and professional. “I’m a Curate-Illuminator of the Gilded Image.”

“I see.” The Jarl shifted on his throne. His robes were of indigo silk, woven in Hammerfell, and white fox-fur trim worth its weight in gold down south framed his shoulders with a heavy gold chain set with gems linking it all. “So the rumours of dragons are true?”

“Yes, Jarl…” She searched her memory for his name and found Balgruuf. “Yes, Jarl Balgruuf. They were about to execute Ulfric’s son Bjarni, with the Jarl of Windhelm himself to follow, when the dragon attacked. Things became rather chaotic after that, as you could imagine.”

“Of course Ulfric and his get would be involved,” Balgruuf said sourly. “So Tullius was on the verge of ending the civil war?”

“I doubt that greatly. Sigdrifa and Egil would continue the fight,” the huscarl said darkly.

“I would have gone straight to Solitude but Gerdur asked me to deliver a request for some guards for Riverwood,” Aurelia continued, ignoring the bit about her mother and other brother.

“Probably beat Alvor to it. Stormcloaks and Imperials have supporters in every damned village in Skyrim,” Balgruuf said wearily. “Now we have dragons on the loose. The gods are certainly making this an interesting Fourth Era.”

“Don’t ask me. It’s not like Dibella drops by to speak to me,” Aurelia said wryly.

“Ha! I suppose not.” Balgruuf rose to his feet. “But you survived Helgen, where others did not. I have a task that might be suited to someone of your… talents.”

“I don’t practice the Dibellan Arts with outsiders of a politically sensitive nature,” Aurelia said firmly.

Balgruuf laughed. “As much as I’d enjoy it, I’m not asking you that. Farengar tells me he needs-“

“A map of dragon burials located in a tomb crawling with zombies or whatever the local equivalent is,” Aurelia finished with a sigh. “Yes, I know. The innkeeper at Riverwood told me.”

“Well then, you’ll save me the explanation. But Farengar will have more to say about it.”

“Jarl Balgruuf, with all respect, I’m supposed to go to Solitude post-haste. Shouldn’t you hire a sellsword or something?” Aurelia protested as she reluctantly followed him across the hall to the mage’s workroom.

“You survived Helgen. I need that kind of luck,” Balgruuf said adamantly.

“Then you’d better give me the funds to hire a sellsword myself because I’m not equipped to deal with a tomb full of undead.”

Balgruuf’s expression became pinched. “You know Restoration, right?”

“Yes, a few Healing spells and a Ward!” Aurelia snapped. “Why don’t you hire those three who were fighting a giant outside the city this morning?”

“Companions of Jorrvaskr charge too much,” Balgruuf said, stripping off a golden arm-ring and tossing it to her. “Your reward for bringing the news to me. Use it to hire a sellsword if you think it necessary. But I need that Dragonstone and you obviously have Dibella looking out for you if you survived Helgen. We need all the luck and blessings we can get.”

Aurelia gritted her teeth during Farengar’s condescending lecture and then marched down towards the marketplace. Balgruuf was obviously rich and influential; if she ignored him and went straight to Solitude, the High Prelate of Dibella would eventually hear about it and she’d never hear the end of it. But once that damned Dragonstone was delivered, she intended to shake the dust of this place from her sandals and never return.


	4. Ysgramor's Heirs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and mentions of corpse desecration.

Jorrvaskr was the archetypical Nord mead-hall, built from an overturned boat and hung with banners, trophies and relics of previous victories. A sturdy Nord girl with white hair and a wiry Dunmer male fought it out in the corner, cheered on by a mixed motley crowd of warriors and servants. Aurelia winced as the Nord landed a particularly nasty blow on the mer’s cheek and sent him sprawling, but an older scarred warrior with one eye snapped the bout was over and the victor reluctantly helped the loser to his feet. The crowd scattered after that, the hulking sable-haired warrior from earlier walking over to where she stood.

“Welcome to Jorrvaskr. I’m Farkas. What can I do for ya?” he asked in a quiet, raspy tenor.

“Aurelia Ink-Fingers, Curate-Illuminator of the House of Dibella,” was her answer as she offered her hand.

Farkas shook it with a gentle grip that belied his massive paw. “I’m guessing you need an escort. The bandits between here and Markarth don’t respect the cloth, to put it politely.”

“Actually, I need some help. Jarl Balgruuf decided to drop the Dragonstone job on me because I survived Helgen and he thinks I have a divine blessing from Lady Dibella,” Aurelia told him with a sigh, reaching into her pouch for the golden arm-ring Balgruuf had given her. “What will this get me? The two other options… well, one’s probably on her way to the Dark Brotherhood and the other expected me to either fight her or fuck her for the privilege.”

Farkas turned his head and bellowed, “Skjor! We need ya over here!”

Skjor was the one-eyed warrior who’d ended the fistfight. “Welcome to Jorrvaskr, Sister…?”

“Aurelia. Aurelia Ink-Fingers,” Farkas supplied with a smile. “She needs someone to go to Bleak Falls Barrow with her. Balgruuf’s trying to cut costs by making her go and get it because she survived the dragon at Helgen.”

“I was given this to pay for it,” Aurelia told Skjor, offering the arm-ring.

Skjor examined the intricate interlace thoughtfully, then lifted his head. “Njada! I need you to take someone up to Eorlund to be valued for barter.”

“You’re making me run some bracelet up to Eorlund?” Njada, the girl who’d won the fight, asked in disbelief. “Why can’t the Dibellan wench deliver it herself?”

“Ya don’t think you’re too good to do a simple errand for a Shield-Brother, do ya?” Farkas rumbled dangerously.

“’No masters at Jorrvaskr’, they said,” muttered Njada as she snatched the bracelet out of Skjor’s hand and exited the hall. “But got to jump when a Circle member says ‘frog’.”

“Days like this I contemplate sending her back to Windhelm,” Skjor sighed. “But then we’d never hear the end of it from Sigdrifa Stormsword.”

“Might be worth it if she keeps up the attitude,” Farkas pointed out.

“I apologise, Sister Aurelia,” Skjor said, turning towards the table. “Take a seat and have some mead. We need to hear about that dragon.”

Athis, the Dunmer, was sent to fetch various other ‘whelps’ (trainee Companions, it seemed), other members of the Circle and the ‘Harbinger’, who was apparently the leader of them all. When they were all gathered in the great hall, even the sweaty grey-maned blacksmith Eorlund and the oldster Vignar, Aurelia drained her cup of mead and rose to her feet to address them.

Every Priest of Dibella, no matter their eventual position in the order, learned the basics of oratory and storytelling. Aurelia’s singing voice was less than pleasing to the gods, but her contralto carried well in speech, and she’d read almost every Nord saga and poem she could get her hands on in the Great Chapel in Anvil. So she paused to cast the story in the style of the _Song of Hrothmir_ and chose her words carefully.

“Aurelia, called Ink-Fingers,

Far-famed for calligraphy and illumination,

Summoned to Solitude’s lofty halls,

To gild holy books for Skyrim’s Temples,

Paused a day in Helgen after braving

Jeralls’ high snowy passes.

There she saw Ulfric’s son Bjarni kiss

The headsman’s bride.

But black wings unfurled,

Voice of world’s ending roared,

And the weapons of men broke

Upon Al-Du-In’s hide and

Even the Legion despaired.

In the wake of Stormcloaks’ escape,

Went Aurelia, no warrior she,

And made her way to Riverwood,

Where hetwoman sent her on

To Whiterun with a warning

For the Jarl’s ears.

Jarl Balgruuf, ring-giver and gold-gatherer,

Believed her blessed of Dibella with luck

And so gave her the task

Of plumbing Bleak Falls Barrow’s depths

For the Dragonstone that marks dragon graves.

Come have I to Jorrvaskr’s halls,

Seeking the help of the Companions,

Bright gold I can offer,

Loot from the undead,

And healing hands.”

When it was done, she wiped her hands on her robes – surprised at her sweating palms – and waited for the Companions’ response.

It was the leaner, meaner version of Farkas who spoke in a drawl similar to Ralof’s. “Not bad for someone who was skipping all over the Poetic Edda like a maiden picking flowers in a field.”

“My mother was a Nord and so I tried to read everything about Skyrim I could get my hands on,” Aurelia admitted ruefully. “I’m not exactly known for impromptu poetry.”

“You should spend some time at the Bards College,” rumbled the burly grey-haired man who sat in the most ornate chair. “You have the bardic gift and a pleasant voice.”

He glanced at Eorlund, who held the golden arm-ring in one meaty hand. “Eorlund?”

“I’d value the arm-ring at three hundred septims,” the blacksmith replied in a surprisingly light tenor. “If she was a bard, I’d give her a hundred for the poem. She _tried_ , at least, to respect our ways, Kodlak.”

“And the dragons touch upon matters of prophecy and safety in Skyrim,” Kodlak agreed with a sigh. “Farkas, you and Njada will accompany Sister Aurelia to Bleak Falls Barrow on the morrow.”

“Why am I going?” Njada demanded.

“Because in your zeal to serve Talos, you forget there’s eight other Divines, and you spoke disparagingly of an ordained priestess who came to us in honest need,” Kodlak chided. “As a would-be Shieldmaiden of Talos, you should be more courteous to your fellow clerics.”

Much to Aurelia’s surprise, Njada flushed darkly in shame. “I offer as wergild my share of the fee,” the Shieldmaiden said softly but clearly. “I will assist Sister Aurelia for nothing but honour, Harbinger.”

Kodlak inclined his head in acceptance. “That is acceptable. I may advise you on the course of honour, but in the end it is you who decides what that honour entails.”

“I’m guessing you’re more than mercenaries?” Aurelia asked Farkas, who seemed friendly, in a low voice.

“We are the heirs of Ysgramor,” he said proudly – and loudly. “For five thousand years, since the distant green summers of Atmora, we have guarded Skyrim and shown the world the true definition of Nord honour.”

“Which you yourself have demonstrated today, Sister Aurelia,” Kodlak said with a smile. “You would have been quite within your rights to have us fetch the Dragonstone and still been within the parameters of the task Jarl Balgruuf gave you, but you will brave Bleak Falls Barrow with us as a true Nord should.”

“I went past that giant Farkas and the others were fighting,” Aurelia admitted with a flush, oddly ashamed.

“Unless you are secretly a great battlemage, that was just common sense,” Kodlak observed amusedly. “Now, the hall of Jorrvaskr is open to anyone seeking our help, and I know the Bannered Mare isn’t cheap. Do you wish to stay the night?”

“Please. Balgruuf gave me a pallet but if his brats make _one more joke_ about the Dibellan Arts, I’ll do something unbecoming of a cleric of the House of Dibella,” Aurelia said fervently.

Njada grimaced. “My mentor Sigdrifa was trying to get her youngest son to betroth Dagny. Egil said if he wanted to suffer for the rest of eternity, he might as well get soul-trapped because at least the Soul Cairn doesn’t have Dagny in it.”

“Bjarni’s response was funnier,” Athis said with a grin. “He threatened to elope to the Benevolence of Mara with the first womer he met!”

“Which pissed off Ulfric _and_ Sigdrifa,” Njada said with a shudder. “I’ve heard Argonian fishwives swear less than the Stormsword in a fury and Ulfric can literally shake the walls of the Palace with his Voice.”

Aurelia shuddered at the memory. Sigdrifa’s soprano was dissonant, harsh and slightly nasal, and when she was in a fury, her father Rustem used to joke they could hear her down in Bruma.

“Enough of politics,” Kodlak said firmly. “Vilkas, would you care to chant something from _Songs of the Return?_ Volume 19 might be appropriate as it speaks of our beginning.”

Aurelia retook her seat, accepted a flagon of mead from Torvar, the whelp who was serving that night, and listened to the lean Companion chant of Jorrvaskr’s origins, marking his cadence and style. It was better than contemplating the fact that her mother had gone on without her, ungrieving and unconcerned, and had herself a pair of proper Nord sons.


	5. Love is Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, misogyny, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“Stay behind me!” yelled Njada as she raised her shield, catching the arrow before it struck Aurelia in the throat. “Talos smite you, bandit!”

It wasn’t Talos who smote the bandit but Njada with her shield, leaving his face red ruin and proving her moniker of ‘Stonearm’. Farkas had already climbed the stairs and thrown the most heavily armoured of the trio from the tower, Aurelia using her Telekinesis spell to push the archer right under the falling bulk of his friend. The resulting crunch was… loud. And bloody.

For the heirs of Ysgramor, the Companions were quite casual about looting the dead of coin, gems and potions. Aurelia found herself carrying it as the other two needed to be unburdened for the other bandits and probable draugr ahead.

“Grab that bow. Ria needs a better one,” Farkas ordered Njada, pointing to a toad-green Orcish weapon.

“Fine,” the whelp grumbled. “She really ought to get her own, the damn faithless Imperial.”

“We are politically neutral and if ya both pass your Proving, you’ll be Shield-Sisters,” Farkas said sternly.

“She’s hiding something, Farkas, I’m sure of it.” But Njada obeyed, slinging the bow across her back.

There were four more bandits (and a few dead ones) and several skeever inside before they met the zombies. Then there were traps. A giant spider that spat ice-cold venom. More zombies. The Nord variety were freeze-dried and uncomfortably intelligent. Farkas and Njada did all the fighting while Aurelia used Healing Hands whenever appropriate.

Finally, they came to the innermost sanctum, where a wall carved with a strange clawed script curved around a dais holding a sarcophagus. “King-draugr’ll be in there, probably with the Dragonstone,” Farkas said in satisfaction. “Be careful. Old Nord sacrifice place. They used to sacrifice folks to the dragons.”

“I know,” Aurelia said softly. “So what do we do?”

“Wake up the king-draugr and put ‘em to sleep again,” was the warrior’s pragmatic reply.

Which was more or less what happened: Farkas slid off the sarcophagus’ heavy stone lid and Njada plunged her sword into the neck as the king-draugr writhed and rasped obscenities in an oddly familiar tongue. When the ice-blue light had died in its eyes, the senior Companion picked up the headless corpse one-handed and dropped it to the ground. Sickeningly, the Dragonstone had been sewn into its chest.

Shuddering, Aurelia glanced around, and found her gaze caught by the script on the wall. There was a strange glow about one word, a hum of power that sank into her very bones. “Fus,” she whispered. _Force._

“Aurelia, hold this,” Njada said blithely, dumping a tangle of metal and gems into her hands. “I need to smash a chest open.”

It was a long walk back to Riverwood, laden as they all were with loot, and sunset had fallen by the time they returned. Lucan Valerius, the local shopkeeper, was happy to keep his store open a little while longer for the Companions who brought back his prized golden claw, empty out his chest of gold for them, and barter for what they had no use for. Ancient coins and jewellery were transformed into healing and stamina potions, a set of dusty but still wearable mage robes were traded for ingots of metal, and Farkas insisted on selling the enchanted king-draugr’s sword for a necklace of dark copper adorned with leaves and a purple agate-set flower.

“Amulet of Dibella,” he told Aurelia, handing it over to her. “Wear that and folks will know you’re a priestess.”

She donned it and realised that yes, the flower was a stylised lily, sheened with a subtle enchantment.

“It will make your tongue that little bit sweeter,” Farkas continued blithely. “I mean, not that ya need much help but… every little bit helps.”

“Thank you,” Aurelia said softly.

Delphine was nowhere to be seen and so Orgnar wouldn’t rent a room to them. That meant prevailing on Lucan and his sister Camilla Valeria for a place to lay out bedrolls. Aurelia had gone to the village sauna to clean herself when a Bosmer with a white shock of hair approached her.

“By the gods, my prayers have been answered!” he announced.

“I don’t practice the Dibellan Arts outside of the order,” Aurelia said flatly.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t going to ask that of you,” he said quickly. “For my heart is given to Camilla Valeria!”

“Shut up, Faendal, she’s mine!” snapped a plain-faced blond Nord with a long jaw as he strode towards the elf.

“Pfft. You’re not even a real bard, Sven,” taunted Faendal. “Camilla will be mine.”

“Before you two decide to get into a fight over the dubious honour of the village beauty, could you _please_ let me go to the sauna in peace?” Aurelia asked with a sigh.

“Priestess, you must persuade Camilla to be mine!” Sven demanded. “She deserves a real man!”

“A ‘real man’ who lives with his mother,” retorted Faendal. “At least I rent my own cottage. I can provide better for a wife than you, oh master bard!”

**_“ENOUGH!”_** Aurelia’s voice cracked like thunder in the evening stillness, silencing the crickets and seemingly echoing off the Jeralls to the south of them. “Are you men or petty little boys squabbling over toys?”

“Priestess, you must beg her to make a choice,” Faendal said in a softer, subdued voice. “She won’t.”

“Have either of you considered that maybe she can’t, either from fear or because she cares for you both?” Aurelia asked in a quieter voice. “Fear of reprisal from the jilted man… or maybe fear of hurting you both.”

Sven bristled. “We’d never hurt her! Whatever choice she decides, I can live with it.”

“As can I,” Faendal said soberly.

“Then come with me. I can see I won’t get a bath until I sort you idiots out.”

Camilla was at the Sleeping Giant, where half the village was drinking. “That was a quick bath,” she noted as Aurelia approached her.

“I was ambushed by your suitors,” Aurelia said dryly. “Can you please make a choice or just end this? They were on the verge of a fistfight in front of me.”

“Amen!” called out the lanky blond who was Gerdur’s husband. “It ain’t fair to keep tugging on their heartstrings like that, Camilla.”

“Really? First my brother bitches at me about it and now I’ve got you on my case about it! Did either of those two geniuses tell you they tried to discredit each other with false notes?” Camilla demanded. “If the choices in Riverwood didn’t revolve around these two and the village drunk, I’d tell them both to piss off and leave me alone!”

“You have that choice,” Aurelia said softly into the charged silence that followed. “The first lesson Dibella teaches is open your heart to love. That includes self-love, Camilla. If your choice lies between two liars, then choose the truth of yourself.”

She turned to the shamefaced Sven and Faendal. “And you two should be utterly ashamed of yourselves, for a love based on deceit will always falter when the truth comes out. Love is kind. Love is patient. But first of all, most of all, love is honest with itself and others.”

Aurelia turned for the door. “I’m going back to the sauna. Take a good long hard think about what I told you and make your decisions wisely. Just let me finish my bloody bath in peace.”

She never did learn their choices because she was gone the next day.


	6. A Most Unlikely Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, misogyny and mentions of sexual activity, slut-shaming, child abandonment and childhood trauma.

“I thought you didn’t practice the Dibellan Arts outside of your order?” Njada remarked after Farkas and Aurelia joined her in the pale gold light of early morning.

“I don’t practice them with outsiders who could be politically problematic,” Aurelia corrected gently. “As to why, my reasons are my own.”

Farkas, who was generally a relaxed and easy-going person, had the same goofy smile that Njada remembered from her and Egil’s first time together. After the Thalmor’s massacre at Yngvild, Sigdrifa – the last remaining true Shieldmaiden – had relaxed the rules of celibacy to only matter _after_ taking oath as Shieldmaiden. Or retaking, in the Stormsword’s case; once Bjarni and Egil were born, she renewed her vows while Ulfric returned to his beloved Galmar, consort and huscarl. It seemed to work better than people thought.

There were times Njada missed Egil but she understood that a bride from the Stone-Fist family couldn’t bring the same kind of political benefits to Eastmarch as could someone like Dagny Balgruufsdottir or Idgrod the Younger. Sigdrifa had been very gentle, almost apologetic, in her explanations of why she and Ulfric had refused their blessing. Skyrim’s needs came before personal wishes. Even a slightly younger Njada understood that.

She wondered what Aurelia would think of the situation but decided not to ask. After hearing the tongue-lashing the priestess was capable of dispensing last night, Njada wasn’t keen to experience one for herself.

It had certainly caused her to re-examine her viewpoint of Dibella and Her clerics. In the Old Holds, Dibella was considered a lesser Divine along the lines of Zenithar or Julianos; a god to be acknowledged but not one truly fit for a true child of Skyrim. Faith and steel would win the province’s freedom, not sex or trade or magic. Her priests were indulgent, vain, luxurious creatures who frittered away their time on things of little to no consequence. Even among the followers of the pre-Talosite faith, Dibella was Shor’s Bed-Wife, the one who provided Him with comfort and pleasure while Mara bore His children and Kyne joined Him on the battlefield.

Njada had expected Aurelia to encourage Camilla to pick a partner or maybe take both as lovers last night. She should have waited safely in Whiterun while Farkas and Njada fetched the Dragonstone. But she hadn’t done any of that, encouraging Camilla to be happy on her own if she wanted and going to Bleak Falls Barrow despite having little to no combat experience or not being a good healer.

“You said your mother was a Nord last night,” she finally said as they walked down the switchback trail beside the waterfall.

“She was, and yes, I am a Nord. My father was Redguard with an Imperial father,” was the priestess’ response. “One of the senior acolytes at the Great Chapel of Dibella in Anvil thought it would be funny to call me ‘ink-fingers’ because I worked in the scriptorium. I figured it was as good a surname as any and went with it.”

Farkas laughed in delight. “Good on ya!”

Even Njada had to smile. She envied the priestess her confidence and acceptance of herself. “How’d the daughter of a Nord join the House of Dibella?”

“I lost my family in the Great War and because I came from Bruma, the Temples took the children in,” Aurelia answered. “No one else would have wanted the offspring of those considered heretics and the clergy suffered much during the War, so it killed two birds with one stone.”

The Stormcloaks, in particular Sigdrifa and the civilians she’d recruited from what had been the Blades support network, made much of the Martyrs of Bruma. Njada had never considered if there’d been survivors of the Thalmor’s massacre at the Great Chapel… or what had happened to them.

“Your parents died well,” she offered tentatively. “The Stormcloaks remember the Talosite dead of Bruma.”

“Most of my family died in Arius’ failed rebellion,” Aurelia corrected, her lips pursed. “The rest scattered to the winds. I _think_ my father might be alive in Hammerfell. I _know_ my mother survived and fled to Skyrim. And no, I’m not particularly interested in chasing up the rumours of where they might be. I have a good life. I don’t need to die on a Legion cross or in a Thalmor prison.”

They’d reached the crossroads by now, where one of Balgruuf’s guards glowered at all passing traffic in between furtive glances at the sky.

The idea of not searching out for family was alien to Njada. Surely any true Nord-

She glanced at Aurelia. The priestess had been raised in a Temple and told her family were heretics, traitors and only Talos knew what else. Her tone implied that suggested her mother may have even abandoned her, which was abhorrent to Njada.

“Sounds like old Skjor,” Farkas said quietly. “Didn’t much get on with his blood family, but found one in the Companions. Like that with you and the House of Dibella, right?”

“Something like that,” Aurelia agreed, subtly relaxing. “My uncle, who is a Knight of the Circle – the Arkayan military order – called in a favour and had a Dibellan priestess claim me from the Imperial Workhouse. I think we were all surprised that I turned out to have a real knack for calligraphy and illumination, which would have gone to waste in nearly any other religious order.”

The silence that followed was far less awkward and continued until they reached Dragonsreach. Farengar Secret-Fire was consulting with a sharp-jawed blonde Breton who favoured Aurelia with a glance of mingled chagrin and surprise.

“Dragonstone,” Farkas said laconically, dumping the stone tablet on the polished oak desk. Aurelia had already made charcoal rubbings of it for her own reference.

“ _You_ went into Bleak Falls Barrow?” the Breton asked Aurelia in disbelief.

“The Jarl dumped the job on me,” she said sardonically. “It’s funny how much you can survive with a couple of Ysgramor’s heirs by your side.”

“Have the translation for me by the end of the week,” the Breton told Farengar. “My employers are-“

“Farengar! Farengar!” Irileth, Balgruuf’s Dunmer huscarl, came running up to the workroom entrance. “A dragon’s been sighted near the western watchtower. The Jarl needs to see you at once.”

“A dragon! How exciting!” Farengar said gleefully. “Was it burning anything? Did it talk?”

“I’d be a bit less excited if I were you. If that dragon sets the fields ablaze, half of Skyrim will starve,” Irileth pointed out. “Sister Aurelia, you might as well come too. You survived Helgen and we’ll probably need a healer.”

“If the dragon’s big and black, you’re going to need a bloody miracle,” Aurelia said dryly.

“I should get going,” the Breton said quickly.

“Like hell you are.” Aurelia’s tone became hard as steel. “We’re going to need every _blade_ possible to kill this thing.”

If looks could have killed, the priestess should have spontaneously combusted from the force of the Breton’s glare.

“We’ll need you two as well,” Irileth told Njada and Farkas.

“Njada, go collect everyone at Jorrvaskr who can be spared. This is a chance of glory we daren’t ignore,” Farkas ordered.

Reluctantly, she obeyed.

They left Whiterun in a group of twenty and it was apparent even from here the western watchtower was a ruin. The group broke into a run, Aurelia hiking up her robes to her knees and managing to keep up with the warriors. “Use lightning on the dragon as the Thu’um is a kind of magic,” she ordered, panting. “That’s what the Akaviri Dragonguard did.”

“ _Someone_ listened to old Esbern,” the Breton noted.

“The other options were to listen to my mother and father argue or my grandfather ramble about how he was the rightful Emperor of all Tamriel,” was Aurelia’s retort. “Esbern was cracked, but he wasn’t mad, a religious zealot or an adulterer.”

“Do you remember what I said?” the Breton demanded.

“Yes. The problem is I can’t exactly hide my lineage and if my family doesn’t like their dirty laundry aired, to Oblivion with them. Their lies are their own and I refuse to let my truth bow to them.”

“Maybe, but you could get a lot of people killed.”

“Have you been paying attention? It’s the end of the world until we find the muscle-bound moron destined to suck Alduin’s soul out like seeds from a pomegranate. Death is a little thing compared to a lifetime of wearing the shame of other people’s sins, Delphine.”

As they neared the watchtower, the lone surviving guard called for them to fall back because the dragon was still around somewhere. Irileth had just enough time to array everyone before the dragon, bronze-scaled in the morning light, descended on them with fire and fury.

If it wasn’t for Aurelia, most of them – even the Companions – would have died in the first sustained blast of fire. The priestess dual-cast Ward, the wavering glasslike surface disrupting the dragon’s Shout long enough for Irileth and Athis to divert the beast. It was obvious the fire-resistant Dunmer would draw the dragon’s ire while others flanked it.

The fight wasn’t the all-consuming horror Aurelia described Helgen as being, because the dragon paused to mock them often, telling them that Alduin feasted on the souls of heroes in Sovngarde. Judging by the expressions on both Delphine and Aurelia’s faces, it was true, and that only made Njada more determined to kill this thing. The very souls of the Stormcloaks depended on it.

Eventually the dragon was worn down, brought to the ground by one of Aela’s masterful shots, and after that it was simple butchery. Farkas sawed through the serpentine neck to decapitate it and the dragon’s last words were “Dovahkiin? Niid!”

Somehow, Njada was the only one unsurprised to see the rush of power envelope Aurelia in Aedric fires, and yet she couldn’t articulate why beyond an understanding that it was the only reason a Temple scribe could have survived the past few days.

The gods were saying something here but Njada didn’t know what.


	7. Politically Problematic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for misogyny, slut-shaming and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, genocide and child abandonment.

Her hands looked no different. Slim, long-fingered, slight callus on her right middle finger and thumb from holding a quill, a permanent rainbow of splotches from the inks and paints of her trade. No divine fire shone through the olive-bronze skin, outlining her veins in a blaze of light. Just the tension of tendon and muscle as she flexed her hands into fists ceaselessly.

“What’s she gonna do, fuck Alduin to death?” asked a slightly too-drunk nobleman, big and blond and wearing Legion armour that was too crisp and new to have ever seen combat, about two places down. His relatives, excepting the lean long-faced young man with a melancholy expression, burst into crude laughter while the grey-maned clan across from them glared in disgust.

“That would be more than you managed to do in the Haafingar First,” sneered Vignar, a retired Companion. “How’d you get mustered out again? I heard it was a sore back.”

“Maybe the gods chose her because we’re obsessed with war and death,” said the melancholic young man gloomily, exchanging a warm sorrowful glance with the silver-haired young woman sitting next to Vignar. “Dibella is the Goddess of Love and Good Things.”

_Oh dear,_ Aurelia thought as she noticed the shared look. _Feuding families and a son of one’s in love with the daughter of another. I hope we don’t have a tragedy here._

Balgruuf’s feast lived up to the depictions in the sagas. Platters of meat as thick as her arm were paraded around while mead, ale and wine flowed like the river outside the city walls. The Jarl had declared her a Thane of Whiterun and granted her the service of his bastard niece Lydia, an attractive brunette about ten years younger than Aurelia and with a marked preference for women if the looks she was exchanging with the sister of the drunk nobleman was anything to go by. He appeared rather nettled by that until Aurelia shook her head. Now, more than ever, she needed to avoid political entanglements.

There came a point in every party when everyone was too preoccupied to notice a departure, even that of the guest of honour. Aurelia quietly exited the Great Hall, climbed up to the guest room she’d been given in Balgruuf’s private quarters and gathered what few belongings she had before leaving through the servant’s entrance. For tonight, at least, she’d find better comfort in Jorrvaskr and tomorrow she would have to start the journey to High Hrothgar, where the Greybeards preserved the knowledge of the Thu’um.

It seemed she wasn’t the only one late abroad. Skjor the Scarred and Aela the Huntress emerged from a cave beneath the Skyforge and were walking towards the front entrance of Jorrvaskr when Aurelia reached them. “Managed to escape the feast, eh?” Aela asked amusedly.

“Between the jokes about the way I should use the Dibellan Arts to subdue Alduin and the politics…” Aurelia confirmed with a sigh. “Would Kodlak mind if I borrow a pallet tonight? I need to be gone on the morrow.”

Skjor’s teeth flashed whitely in the moonlight. “Farkas would have room for you in his bed, if you were looking for a repeat performance.”

Despite herself, she blushed. “He is a kind and vigorous lover.”

“Most women dismiss him as an idiot and try to woo his brother because he’s tall, dark and broody,” Aela observed. “Most of them are disappointed to discover they’re barking up the wrong tree with Vilkas.”

“I got that impression,” Aurelia agreed.

“You’re welcome to stay whenever you’re in Whiterun,” Skjor continued as he opened the door. “And if Companions are heading in the same direction as you, you’re welcome to travel with us for free.”

“That’s generous,” Aurelia noted once they were inside.

“We fight for money… but we fight for honour too. Dragonborn, you’ve fought alongside us in your own way and shown a lot of respect for our customs. A little help now and then is the least you deserve,” the grizzled warrior assured her.

“Thank you.”

Aurelia didn’t visit Farkas’ bed that night because she could hear his snores in the whelps’ quarters, so she took a spare bed and fell asleep almost instantly. When she awoke, it was to the Colovian girl Ria pulling on armour, the elaborate black warpaint around her eyes not concealing her true identity.

“Highness,” Aurelia said quietly and warily.

“Ria,” the Imperial Heir corrected softly. “Shouldn’t you be in Solitude?”

“I took a detour and the gods decided to make me Dragonborn,” Aurelia said dryly.

Ria’s expression went still. “I suppose those stories about your family are true then.”

“True or not, I’m a priestess of Dibella and Irkand kills things for Arkay. Neither of us are in a position to take the Ruby Throne,” Aurelia assured her. “As for my mother and her loudmouth husband, they can both honestly go and get fucked so far as I’m concerned.”

“You should go to Windhelm and see what a mess they’ve made of it,” Ria agreed as she fastened her greaves. “Or just ask Athis. Part of the reason he hates Njada so much is because Sigdrifa cut rations for the Dunmer and Argonians during her regency and his family froze to death.”

Aurelia shuddered. “I… sort of followed the Stormcloaks out of Helgen. I was more interested in the fastest route out and…”

“Helgen was a shitshow and Tullius will have some explaining to do the next time I’m in Solitude,” Ria said grimly. “I’m here to learn how we can keep the Nords in the Empire – and because I want to prove I can be the kind of ruler they need.”

“Do the Companions know that?”

“No.”

“That’s going to bite you in the arse. Njada already suspects something.” Aurelia rose to her feet and reached for an ewer of water, a small cake of lavender-scented soap and a washcloth. “Nords value honesty, Ria, and not the logic-chopping kind of the Cyrods. Something to consider while you’re here.”

“I’m doing what I must for the Empire,” she responded, nettled.

“That’s what your grandfather said when he allowed the Thalmor to purge Bruma.”


	8. Lost in Eastmarch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny, slut-shaming, imprisonment, war crimes, religious conflict, genocide and child abandonment. Aurelia’s a bit directionally challenged, okay? I also head-canon Galmar having a lot of emotional intelligence, so he’s the most empathetic of the Stormcloak ruling trio.

Somewhere between the river-fort of bandits and the tangle of pine forest before the volcanic tundra edged by what appeared to be actual permafrost, Aurelia had gotten lost. With none of the Companions going to Ivarstead and not wishing to take along Balgruuf’s niece, her supposed huscarl, she’d bought a bunch of Invisibility potions and set off in what she believed was the fastest direction to High Hrothgar. Now she stood on a bridge that led to a city that dominated an ice-locked harbour, looking over her shoulder at the Throat of the World thrusting its way into a sunset-gold sky. Wherever she was meant to be, this place wasn’t it.

Shouldering her pack and sighing, Aurelia crossed the bridge to a stable, glad she’d swapped her sandals for a pair of ugly but sturdy boots. Judging by the beards, braids and furs on the few people she could see, she’d come to the Old Holds, which even other Nords described as the height of barbarity. There were a few whistles until a grey-haired man with weather-flushed skin and armour made from the skin and bones of a bear slapped a guard in a blue cotton wrap upside the head. “That’s a Priestess of Dibella. Show some damn respect,” he growled.

“Maybe she’s come to encourage the troops,” someone else said with a crude laugh.

“You’re on stable duty for the next week, Torjon,” rumbled the grey-haired warrior. “Hroki, you can join him.”

“Talos damn it, Galmar,” grumbled the guard he’d cuffed. “Dressed like _that_ in this weather-“

Aurelia gave him a flat gaze. Her robes weren’t particularly immodest – there was a popular style of dress that showed more leg than they did – but cream, plum-purple and dusky-rose were rare colours in Skyrim and a belt of twisted copper chains tied them around the waist. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothing. The problem lies in your attitude.”

“Plenty of Nord women wear less and I don’t see you disrespecting them,” Galmar (Ulfric’s consort and huscarl as Aurelia understood it, which meant she’d somehow strayed close to Windhelm) agreed.

“I’m a Nord,” Aurelia told him. “I was just given to the House of Dibella after the Great War.”

“You’d be that scribe-lass who was at Helgen then,” Galmar said, giving the two offending Stormcloaks a glance that had them scurry off to the stables. “If you’re looking for Solitude, you’re in the wrong place.”

“I got side-tracked… and then lost,” Aurelia said carefully. “I’m not here to cause trouble – or have any.”

“We have no quarrel with Dibella or Her priests,” Galmar assured her. “Unless, of course, they get involved in politics.”

Aurelia shuddered. “I do my best to stay out of it, believe me. My grandfather died in Arius’ rebellion.”

Galmar sighed. “Look, girl, I know who you are. If we gave your mother a Cyrod nose and a good tan, the resemblance would be undeniable. There’s no need to choose your words carefully around here.”

“I was told she pretended her marriage never happened and that I never existed,” Aurelia said, mouth tightening.

“Aye. Ulfric’s father Hoag was a traditionalist and the thought of a Shieldmaiden who was still technically married becoming his only heir’s wife would have put him in his grave,” Galmar told her gently. “For a good many years, we had reason to believe you dead, and by the time we found out otherwise… you were lost to us.”

“But you still pretended I never existed,” Aurelia said in a small voice. “My brothers don’t know who I am, do they?”

“We told them when they were of an age to understand that you were dead,” Galmar answered gruffly. “So far we knew, you were a good little priestess in the Great Chapel of Anvil who never cared for anything beyond her work.”

“If I’d been anything else, I would have been sent to a Thalmor prison,” Aurelia told him, a sullen anger rising beneath the hurt. “I was only taken into the House of Dibella because someone owed my uncle a favour. Otherwise it would have been the Imperial Workhouse and an early grave as a drudge or Legion conscript. Mede only left me alive because he owed Irkand and feared the Madgoddess.”

Galmar completely disarmed the hurt and anger with his next words. “It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair what happened to you, Callaina. If you want, I’ll take you to Kynesgrove and put you on the boat to Solitude in the morning. Ulfric will understand and he’ll overrule Sigdrifa-“

“Let me guess, she’s got a fast pigeon to the Dark Brotherhood with my name on it?” Aurelia interrupted bitterly.

“Ralof said he’d taken you to Riverwood. I’m guessing Delphine had a few words to say,” Galmar answered with a sigh. “Sigdrifa has her flaws – a lot of them – but she won’t send the Brotherhood after a fellow priestess.”

The huscarl sighed again. “You can go on your way without any trouble. Or you can come to Windhelm and have a few words with your mother. There’s something on you, girl, I can see it. Maybe talking to Sigdrifa will remove it.”

Aurelia snorted softly. “Not bloody likely, Galmar. Akatosh has a very strange sense of-“

“Stone-Fist!” bellowed a basso as Bjarni, a leaner version of him in a horseman’s high riding boots, and about twenty Stormcloaks came running up. “A dragon’s been sighted near Kynesgrove.”

“Get into the city, now!” Galmar ordered Aurelia, who was already hiking and tying up her robes for the run.

“You need me,” she said through gritted teeth. “Because you know how I said Akatosh has a very strange sense of humour?”

“Aye?”

“He made _me_ the bloody Dragonborn.”


	9. A Dibellan Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of imprisonment, genocide, war crimes, religious conflict and child abandonment. Broke the last chapter into two for pacing.

“That was the big black bastard at Helgen! What’s he doing here?”

“Esbern said Alduin could bring dragons back from the dead,” the priestess of Dibella who’d just declared herself Dragonborn answered Bjarni’s question. “Somehow I don’t think we’re meant to meet now. Not yet.”

“Bjarni, Egil, meet the sister you thought was dead,” Galmar said grimly as he unlimbered his battleaxe. “Maybe Arius wasn’t mad as a loon after all.”

“Oh, he was,” the priestess said grimly. “We better get to Kynesgrove before he raises that other dragon.”

With that, she tied off her robes and took off with the kind of speed only an experienced runner could demonstrate. Egil supposed if she was as poor a fighter as Bjarni claimed, she’d be very good at fleeing from enemies.

He swung into the saddle and nudged his grey gelding into a gallop, five of his own men and fifteen from Bjarni’s warband on his heels. The javelins rattled in their holster on the saddle with every beat of his horse’s hooves and he soon caught up to the woman, picking her up with one hand despite her spluttering protest and throwing her across the saddle.

“He’ll eat you for dinner if you go up there alone, Dragonborn,” he told her.

Kynesgrove wasn’t too far away and from here, he could see the big black dragon speaking Dovahzul in dark, doomful tones. The tightness of the path slowed him down enough for Bjarni to catch up with his men and he guided the gelding through the glorified game trail until they burst out into the open hill-top where an ancient dragon had been buried.

“SLEN TIID VO!” Alduin Shouted as the mound blasted open, spewing rocks into the air.

Even laying across a saddle, the priestess was able to bat them away in an admittedly impressive display of Alteration. Egil released her and she slid off, taking in a few deep breaths as Ulfric did just before a Shout. To buy her some time, he selected a pair of javelins and threw one after another, striking the skeleton that crawled from the crater with fire rapidly becoming flesh.

“Lightning spells!” the priestess snapped. “The Voice is magicka!”

Bjarni, who’d dabbled in Destruction magic, immediately threw Sparks at the dragon as the woman Shouted “FUS!” and rattled its bones.

Egil and Bjarni’s soldiers were among the elite of the Stormcloaks, so by the time the dragon was fully fleshed and out of the crater, it was flanked. Like Egil, most of them had grabbed javelins while the rest were archers and two even had some Destruction magic.

“I am Sahloknir! Hear my Voice and despair!” the dragon laughed.

Alduin laughed and flew away.

Sahloknir belched fire but the Shout was disrupted by a dual-cast Ward from the Dragonborn. “Go for the wings and back legs,” she ordered hoarsely. “That’s how we killed Mirmulnir in Whiterun.”

“I see mortals have grown arrogant while I slept,” Sahloknir taunted. “My lord Alduin requires your death, Dragonborn! I will be glad to oblige him.”

Her response was to use Unrelenting Force again to shove it back into the crater.

“Keep him on the ground!” Galmar ordered. “Don’t let it take to the sky!”

They did just that. The Dragonborn grimly held her ground, using Ward to shield herself from Sahloknir’s Shouts and timing her own Unrelenting Force to keep it trapped in the crater. Galmar jumped into the crater and laid into the dragon with his battleaxe while everyone else pelted it with javelins, arrows and even heavy rocks. It was a battle where the bear was nibbled to death by ducks because it was stuck in a deep muddy hole.

Finally it was Torjon, one of the younger Stormcloak couriers, who dealt the deathblow and even Egil rejoiced at the dragon’s cry of despair as its soul was consumed by the Dragonborn in a show of blue-gold Aedric fire. The power drove her to her knees and it was a long moment before she rose to her feet, eyes blazing gold-blue-green in the purple dusk of twilight for several heartbeats before returning to seeming normality.

It was Galmar who broke the silence. “Callaina-“

“Aurelia. Aurelia Ink-Fingers,” she interrupted, a rumble to a voice already low and husky.

“Aurelia,” Galmar continued, correcting himself. “ _Dragonborn._ You say you got lost? I say Dibella guided you to us in our need.”

“Dibella cares not for war and _I_ don’t care for politics,” was her answer. “The Stormcloaks and the Legion will just have to fight it out and achieve victory under their own power, not mine.”

“The Legion will try to conscript you, priestess or not,” Bjarni said soberly. “But we won’t. Are you truly…?”

“She is,” Galmar answered. “She looks like your mother but for the nose and complexion, lad.”

Bjarni cast Magelight and the resemblance between Sigdrifa and Aurelia became apparent. “I should have guessed it from the temper and the tongue. You don’t need a knife to scrape your own parchment, sister.”

“Njada told me Mother swears more than an Argonian fishwife on the docks,” Aurelia said wryly.

Egil blinked in surprise. “You were at Jorrvaskr?”

“Stayed there for a couple days, got some help retrieving something Balgruuf’s court wizard wanted and killing Mirmulnir, who decided attacking Whiterun was a good idea,” Aurelia confirmed, wrapping her arms around herself as if cold. “I was trying to find Ivarstead-“

“There’s a dragon at Bonestrewn Crest,” Bjarni interrupted. “If you can spare a couple days to make sure it’s dead, we can take you to Ivarstead, and every Stormcloak in the Old Holds will be under orders to assist you.”

“Ulfric’s own orders, before we knew who the Dragonborn would be,” Galmar confirmed. “The only thing we ask is that you don’t use your Voice against us.”

“I meant what I said. The Stormcloaks and the Legion have to fight this war under their own power. Dibella takes no side in a conflict and neither am I.” She hugged herself tighter. “Remember, I have an uncle loyal to the Empire, and I will likely have to continue living in Imperial territory when this is done because my duties to the House of Dibella won’t be over.”

“You intend to return to the life of a _scribe_?” Bjarni asked in shock.

“Illuminator-Curate of the House of Dibella,” Aurelia corrected with an edge to her voice. “I find pleasure in my work and the Temple has been good to me. Why would I abandon it?”

“It’s getting late and I don’t want to lame the horses in the dark,” Egil said before Bjarni could put his foot in his mouth yet again. He loved his brother, he really did, but Bjarni was a man of absolute loyalty and deep passions. To him, it would make sense Aurelia would embrace her family wholeheartedly and make amends with Sigdrifa to settle down in Windhelm. That was what Nords did.

But Egil, raised partly in the Vigilance of Stendarr, understood that while he wasn’t good at reading people, forgiveness was a tricky beast to ride and Aurelia had a good deal of reason to be ambivalent about, perhaps even hate, their mother. It was Mara, not Dibella, who preached absolute forgiveness after all.

“Aye,” Galmar agreed with audible relief. “If you don’t want to stay at the Palace of the Kings, I’ll get you a room at Candlehearth Hall.”

“How about the Temple of Talos?” Leif the Lonely suggested. “Priestess of Dibella’s going to be bothered by every drunk at the pub and if Bjarni punches Rolff _again_ , Sigdrifa’s threatened him with a night in the Bloodworks.”

“No offence, Galmar, but your brother’s a prick who’s doing more for the Imperial cause among the Dunmer than any Penitus Oculatus agent by harassing them,” Bjarni said unrepentantly. “Punching him is a public service.”

“Rolff is difficult,” conceded Galmar. “But he has scars from the Great War.”

He turned for the path to Windhelm. “Come. It’s been a long day and it’ll be a longer night and the longest day tomorrow.”

Egil thought about the shitstorm which was about to erupt in Windhelm when it became public that the Dragonborn was the Dibellan daughter of the Stormsword who’d never been acknowledged and put the heel of his hand to his head with a groan. This was going to be a mess.


	10. Family Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for emotional trauma, misogyny, slut-shaming and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, child abuse, child abandonment, child neglect, war crimes, genocide and religious conflict.

The Temple of Talos was… imposing. Aurelia could also apply the words ‘oppressive’, ‘cold’ and ‘depressing’ to it as well. The common depiction of Talos as the scale-mailed warlord with his boot on a dragon and sword in hand was a far cry from the dim recollections of the crowned, robed ruler of her childhood. But it was typical of Skyrim and possibly even the Old Holds; if Windhelm was the epitome of the Nord soul, it was a desolate, cold, unforgiving place.

Explained her mother, honestly.

“That skull will look good over the shrine,” Galmar said cheerfully. “If we surround it with Thalmor heads, even better.”

Aurelia suppressed a shudder. Windhelm was going to be bad enough without judging their decorative style.

An older man in blue-grey robes bustled out. “Galmar,” he greeted with a smile. “I thought you were leaving for Falkreath?”

“A dragon got in the way,” Galmar told the priest. “You like its skull, Lortheim? Thought we’d gift it to Talos for a swift victory!”

“Talos favours strength and skill over elaborate gifts. Falkreath is reeling after the destruction of Helgen; you should reclaim it for us before…” Lortheim trailed off and gave Aurelia a narrow-eyed glance. “Who’s the fancy whore?”

Five seconds later Bjarni and Egil were helping him to his feet because Aurelia had Shouted him on his arse.

“Jarl Ulfric, I must ask you to stop Shouting in the Temple! The roof can’t stand much more until we get it fixed!” exclaimed a small, fine-boned Nord woman as she entered the Temple’s main hall.

“For once, it wasn’t Ulfric,” Galmar said amusedly. “The Dragonborn’s a Dibellan priestess who just sat Lortheim down when he said something stupid.”

The female cleric sighed. “He would do that. Dragonborn, my apologies. I’m Jora, High Priestess of the Temple of Talos.”

“Aurelia Ink-Fingers, Illuminator-Curate of the House of Dibella, belonging to the sub-order of the Gilded Page,” Aurelia answered, inclining her head as an equal to a fellow cleric. “I apologise for the outburst. It’s been a long walk from Whiterun with a dragon at the end of it and I don’t take kindly to people dismissing my Goddess or how She is served.”

“Few Dibellans come this far east and most of those who do so focus on Her aspects of femininity and eroticism, like Haelga down in Riften,” Jora answered, handing her husband a minor healing potion as he sat groaning on a pew. “Don’t mistake the Old Holds as a place devoid of art and culture, Sister Aurelia. Most southerners just don’t see our ways as such because they’re used to the decadent ways of the mer.”

“I was going to ask if she could stay here for a couple days,” Galmar said quietly. “Aurelia’s Sigdrifa’s daughter from her first marriage and there’s… well…”

“There’s understandable ambivalence concerning her relationship with us,” Egil finished. “Forgiveness is a hard thing to master – and it isn’t in Dibella’s sphere but Mara’s.”

“Sigdrifa mourned you as much as she was able,” Jora said quietly to Aurelia. “Losing you galvanised her to protect Bjarni and Egil with all her power. When we found out otherwise… You were essentially lost to your family because you’d been too Imperialised. Don’t judge her too harshly.”

“That’s as may be but I’m not required to forgive her either,” Aurelia answered with all the serenity she could muster. “She was honestly a lousy parent before she abandoned me in Cyrodiil.”

“She did her best,” Lortheim wheezed, still breathless from the Unrelenting Force Shout. “Most Shieldmaidens don’t plan on becoming mothers.”

“What was she like as a parent?” Bjarni asked curiously. “She mostly left me and Egil to Ralof and Galmar.”

“I was sickly as a child – a combination of the breathing sickness and living in a place which was rarely opened up to fresh air because my grandfather was paranoid,” Aurelia told him frankly. “I’m assuming what my mother put me through was what she went through as a Shieldmaiden, except I was too sick to really excel and honestly preferred to read books or study magic.”

Her younger brother had the grace to wince. “I’ve seen Njada and the other women training. The Companions probably go easier on her than Mother did.”

Jora sighed with a nod. “I understand. We’ll roll out a pallet for you.”

“Thank you,” Aurelia said in relief. “I really don’t want any trouble. I just want to get to High Hrothgar and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do next.”

…

“Would it kill you to admit that once, just once, you were wrong? Even Talos admitted He made mistakes!”

Personally, Bjarni thought Egil was barking up the wrong tree because Sigdrifa was constitutionally incapable of admitting she’d made a mistake. Their sister, the Dragonborn, had gone out with Yrsarald, Ralof and some of the cavalry led by Egil’s second Leif to deal with the dragon at Bonestrewn Crest (and the giants on the way that killed a Khajiit caravan). That meant they could try and hammer some sense into their mother.

He rubbed his knuckles. Rolff had made a couple remarks after Aurelia had a friendly conversation with Suvaris Atheron about how Skyrim didn’t belong to just the Nords and Bjarni had to perform one of his famous Rolff-Attitude-Readjustments. Sigdrifa couldn’t even throw him into the Bloodworks because even Ulfric couldn’t fault a man for punching Rolff after the drunk had managed to combine sex-shaming, mer-hating and blasphemy of a Divine in one pithy insult. Aurelia had just laughed and said the Altmer she’d fucked a couple years ago was a bigger enemy of the Thalmor than any Nord.

_Akatosh, you have a warped sense of humour,_ he thought ruefully as they waited for the inevitable icy retort from Sigdrifa.

“We made mistakes.” It was Ulfric who spoke. “But what would you have us do?”

“Start with an apology?” Egil suggested.

“We did nothing wrong.” Great, their father was also digging in his heels.

“You left our sister in the hands of the Imperials after you knew she was alive,” Bjarni pointed out. “I’m hurt she hasn’t immediately embraced us too. But honestly, I can’t blame her either.”

Egil gave him a surprised look and Bjarni raised his eyebrows. Did Egil think he lived in the tales where family immediately forgave each other and lived happily ever after? Bjarni was an optimist but he also wasn’t stupid.

Finally, Sigdrifa spoke.

“She has admitted that she will return to Imperial territory after the defeat of Alduin because she puts her false oaths to Dibella above the needs of her people.” The condemnation in those words was absolute.

“Oh, she’s a believer,” Galmar disagreed. “Dibella was there when her mother wasn’t.”

It was rare for Galmar to take a jab at Sigdrifa, but it was known to happen when he thought she was in the wrong.

Bjarni sighed, briefly envied his sister for being raised in a Temple of a goddess dedicated to good things, and prepared for a long night of argument.


	11. Jokes and Pleasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny, slut-shaming and mentions of religious conflict, torture and genocide. I’m expanding on Dibella being more than just the goddess of sex, art, love and women. Happy holidays, folks!

“Dragonborn, I know this is going to sound odd, but I want to thank you for not sleeping with any of my men,” Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced said as they camped in what _had_ been home to a giant. Said giant was now very dead, its toes cut off and its mammoth pet now butchered meat and bone dispatched back to Windhelm for winter stores along with a dragon’s skull for the Palace of the Kings. Ulfric’s soldiers were highly competent and Aurelia was beginning to understand why Tullius was facing the fight of his life.

“You’re welcome, but I’m curious as to why you’re saying it,” she answered as she undid her braid to comb out her hair.

“If you’d chosen one, the others would have been jealous, and if you’d chosen all, they’d be thinking of nothing else,” the commander admitted candidly. “As for the officers… I’m Galmar’s second in Eastmarch, Ralof is functionally Bjarni’s second though he was arms master to both boys, and Leif is Egil’s second. Sleeping with you would have been, ah…”

“Politically awkward?” she asked.

“Yes,” Yrsarald said, audibly relieved.

“Believe me, I avoid those kind of entanglements,” Aurelia said fervently. “And contrary to what you might have heard, Dibellans aren’t nymphomaniacs. You’re mistaking us for Sanguinarians.”

She nodded to the remains of dinner, strips of mammoth meat seared on an iron plate with salt and garlic, then served with pickled cabbage and potatoes. “Dibella is the goddess of pleasure. That includes a good meal after a day of satisfying work. Small pleasures as well as great ones.”

Comprehension flashed across Yrsarald’s face. “That’s why She’s the patron of artists!”

“Yes. There’s some overlap with Mara as the Mother Mild oftentimes includes love and joy in Her sphere, but Dibella is more about _experience_ and Mara about _contentment._ ” Aurelia dragged her ivory comb through her hair, its enchantments untangling and cleaning the locks. Jora had gotten it from the Grey Quarter for her in return for an illuminated page of Talosite prayers that she remembered from the Blades. “That’s why a balanced worshipper needs to honour _all_ of the Divines, even if they favour one or two.”

“So you acknowledge Talos as the Ninth Divine?”

“I acknowledge He’s a god… but He’s a Shezzarine, an aspect of Lorkhan, who the Nords call Shor.” Aurelia sighed and pushed back some combed hair. “Lorkhan’s aspects tend to be… transient, I suppose. It’s part of His nature as the god who made the mortal world. Arkay is the representative of that cycle of life and death in the Imperial faith but the Shezzarine embodies the very transience yet permanency of humanity, as the elven Auriel probably embodies the regret of the gods in being bound to the world forever.”

Yrsarald frowned. “Sigdrifa and Ulfric say the Thalmor are trying to destroy the world because they hate the very idea of humanity.”

“I had an Altmer lover once, a mer who served in the Legion. His grandfather had been an outspoken opponent of the Thalmor who was exiled, then murdered, and his brother was a Psijic – Altmer version of a Greybeard, I suppose, who are dedicated to escaping the mortal coil by becoming an Aedric spirit.” Aurelia braided her hair loosely for sleeping. “The Thalmor’s origins are a little murky, but as I understand it, the modern incarnation holds themselves to be the Altmer equivalent of Stormcloaks who are trying to free _everyone_ from the tyranny of Lorkhan’s deception, as embodied by the conqueror Talos.”

She held up a hand to forestall Yrsarald’s protest. “That’s the _rank and file_ belief according to my former lover. The Thalmor persecute the Psijics because the latter believe that you can only free yourself – and if you use cruelty, pain and terror, you’ll become a _Daedric_ spirit instead.”

The Stormcloak commander nodded grimly. “I’ve heard rumours of Thalmor making Daedric pacts.”

“I can confirm one of those stories to be true. One of the reasons why Irkand Aurelius was declared Immunitas by Titus Mede was because he’d foiled Lord Naarifin’s plans to feed innumerable souls to the Daedric Prince Vaermina. That’s why he wasn’t at Cloud Ruler Temple when it fell – he was too busy saving the world, and the surviving Blades got the idea he’d sold them out for his own survival.” Aurelia sighed. “That’s how the story of Mede wielding Goldbrand got around. My uncle had donned the Emperor’s armour after a Bosmer commando wounded Mede, and then rallied the forces with Legate Primus Rikke at the Battle of the Red Ring.”

“So Mede’s a liar as well as a traitor? No surprise there,” Yrsarald said contemptuously.

“I could say something about the Emperor being desperate after the Great War but…” Aurelia sighed once more. “Cyrodiil lost sixty percent of its population, almost every major city was razed by the Dominion forces, and my grandfather’s rebellion – while geographically limited – came damn near to destroying what was left. Mede reacted as a wounded animal would – and did more for the Thalmor than they’d ever dreamed possible.”

“Your uncle should have just declared himself Emperor,” Yrsarald said bluntly.

“You don’t know Irkand. He’s… well, he’s pretty much an autonomous weapon who doesn’t think too well for himself and isn’t capable of much more than short-term, small-group leadership,” Aurelia admitted. “My family’s an excellent example of how to fuck up your descendants across three or four generations. Being raised by the Dibellans saved me from much of that, I noticed.”

“Aye. Galmar and Ralof had much of the raising of Bjarni and Egil, and I think the boys were the better for it,” Yrsarald agreed with a sigh of his own. “Do you mind if I pass this on to my superiors?”

“Go ahead. It might give my mother some context.” Aurelia smiled ruefully. “Or maybe a clue.”

Yrsarald snickered. “Good luck with that.”

…

“Listener! Listener! Cicero has a grand joke to share with you.”

Rustem finished rewrapping leather around the haft of his naginata before responding to the mad little jester. “Nazir went three hours without trying to punch you?”

“It’s been four,” called the new Speaker of the Dawnstar Sanctuary over from where he sat, peeling potatoes.

“That’s a new record,” Rustem smirked.

“I’m reminding myself that punching a fellow Brother – however irritating – would invoke the Wrath of Sithis,” his fellow Redguard said with a grimace. “Having that contract just up the coast helped though.”

“We all need a hobby, I suppose,” Rustem said, examining his naginata blade for nicks and flaws. “But what’s the joke, Cicero?”

“What’s pretty, Dibellan and can shout the sky down?” the Fool of Hearts asked gleefully.

“Haelga down in Riften,” Nazir drawled.

“No! Listener, you must guess!” Cicero demanded, hopping from foot to foot.

**_“Aurelia Ink-Fingers,”_** supplied the Night Mother amusedly.

Rustem dropped his naginata on his feet in shock. “Aurelia Ink-Fingers? So help me, Cicero, if you slept with my daughter-!”

“What? No! The Dibellan priestesses would never be with poor Cicero!” the jester protested. “Dibella would be very unhappy with them… and poor Cicero.”

“I think he’s referring to the rumours about the dragons,” Nazir offered before Rustem could shake the meaning from Cicero. “One of the most repeated ones is that the Dragonborn is a Dibellan priestess who can barely defend herself.”

“Cicero went down to Windhelm as you asked and while he was juggling in the marketplace for his keep, he saw the Stormcloaks come in with a priestess of Dibella and a dragon skull,” the jester confirmed quickly. “The evil black dragon Alduin raised a dragon at Kynesgrove and your daughter, the sons of that wretched Sigdrifa-“

“I appreciate the loyalty, Cicero, but you don’t need to hate Sigdrifa because I do,” Rustem interrupted.

“Sigdrifa doesn’t believe in happiness or fun. Windhelm is a sad place without laughter because whenever Cicero goes there, he is driven out by her soldiers,” Cicero complained. “It _is_ personal, Listener. She supports the harlot Astrid and hates fun.”

“Is Aurelia a prisoner?” Nazir asked quietly. “I’ve done some research on dragons and… we might want to consider killing anyone who wants to kill her pro bono. I know Alduin means the end of the world.”

“Cicero does not think so,” the jester said quietly. “He tried to get into the Temple of Talos where she stayed so he could tell her that her father is the Listener and he loves her very much, but the guards wouldn’t let me inside. A few hours later she left with Leif the Lonely and some cavalry for Ivarstead. What’s in Ivarstead?”

“It’s the village nearest to High Hrothgar,” Rustem said. His daughter was the Dragonborn? The gods were surely laughing at several people right now. “Do you think she’s in danger?”

“Skyrim is full of dragons that hate her. But Cicero heard Egil and Bjarni order the Stormcloaks to assist her… and not to stop her going where she had to. They are nicer than their mother. Bjarni tipped me a garnet for my juggling.”

“The bigger danger will be Mede and his goons,” Nazir said quietly.

Rustem nodded with a grim smile. “Good thing we’re working on that already, isn’t it?”


	12. This Reeks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, misogyny and fantastic racism.

“Easy there, easy. We got you.”

Bjarni managed to crack open the eye that wasn’t swollen shut and saw two of Suvaris Atheron. The womer was kneeling beside him as one of her brothers – Faryl, he thought – helped him to sit up. “What…?”

“Nords. Well-armoured Nords,” Faryl said grimly. “Someone wanted you dead by elven weapons in the Grey Quarter.”

“Who…?” Bjarni managed to croak out. From head to toe hurt and his throat was drier than the Alik’r Desert.

“We don’t know. Male and female. Big guy had silver hair and smelt like a dog,” Faryl answered. “They were ballsy, I’ll give them that. Jumping Ulfric’s son like that…”

“You managed to mark the woman well with a fire spell. I see Teldryn’s cursing wasn’t entirely wasted,” Suvaris said amusedly as she handed him a small healing potion. “This will get you to the Palace of the Kings.”

Bjarni drank the potion with a grimace, some of the pain easing. “Thanks. But this reeks.”

“Charred skeever hide, mudcrab chitin and blisterwort wouldn’t make for the tastiest potion,” Suvaris said wryly.

“No. Attack.” He’d been coming home from his weekly audience at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, where he encouraged the Dunmer to tell him of their concerns, so he could present them to his father – or quietly handle it himself. “As you say, ballsy.”

“Maybe _blatant_ is the better word,” Suvaris said, amusement fleeing. “Bjarni, the champion of the Dunmer, dead in a Grey Quarter alley at the hands of those he sought to help.”

Bjarni let his head hang as the potion washed over him. Once he had enough concentration back, he could heal himself.

“Egil,” he said softly. “Get him here. Tell him I’m too drunk or something and need an escort.”

“We’ll take you back to the Cornerclub then. Ambarys will just have to tolerate a Nord for a few more hours.”

Dunmer, though shorter and wirier than Nords, had a hidden strength that meant the two of them could wrangle Bjarni back to the Cornerclub. “Just when I thought we’d gotten rid of him,” drawled Ambarys Rendar as he polished a mug.

“Someone tried to murder him and make it look like we did the deed!” Suvaris snapped. “Now do you want to pull your head from your hinder-end for a few minutes and help us or start running for the Sea-Gate now because the Three Good Daedra know the Nords would love to kill us?”

The barkeep went still. “He can stay here. I’ll send a runner to his brother Egil. Waters run deep with that one.”

By the time Egil and Ralof arrived, Bjarni had used the Healing-Galdr to ease most of the pain and heal the worst of the injuries. “We just got word that you’d been attacked,” his little brother reported grimly. “A couple ‘concerned citizens’ brought Mother the news.”

“If they’re a pair of Nords, one a silver-haired male who reeks of dog, then they’re the ones who attacked me,” Bjarni grated.

“Aye,” Ralof growled. “I’ll have a dozen men on their trail-“

Ambarys held up his hand. “Don’t, Storm-Hammer. You’ll be sending them to their deaths.”

“You know them?” Egil asked the mer.

“Of the silver-haired one. Arnbjorn. Failed Companion who might be associated with the Dark Brotherhood. Can’t prove anything but…” Ambarys shrugged eloquently.

“Astrid wouldn’t dare,” Egil said slowly. “My mother’s her best customer.”

“There’s some kind of schism, my Guild contact told me. New Sanctuary, reportedly led by the Listener themselves, somewhere on the northern coast,” Ambarys told him. “Mephala’s webs, the Brotherhood aren’t even loyal to themselves. Give me the word and I can call a dozen Morag Tong from Morrowind to assist you.”

“You don’t like Nords,” Bjarni croaked.

“Most of you, no. But the Brotherhood’s tried to set my people up as scapegoats and that makes it personal.”

Faryl handed Bjarni some sujamma, which he drank gratefully. “Schism or not, this doesn’t make sense. Everyone knows Sigdrifa’s got Astrid by the short and curlies and reportedly the new Sanctuary’s mostly Redguards. One of them’s got a huge bladed spear-thing-“

“Rustem _fucking_ Aurelius,” Egil said flatly. “My mother’s ex-husband.”

“You mean there were _two_ men in Tamriel stupid enough to wed that harpy-bitch?” Ambarys blurted.

“Steady,” Bjarni told his brother. “Mother let a lot of Dunmer freeze to death about twenty or so years ago during her reign as Jarl-Regent. Ambarys probably had family among them.”

“Cousin,” the barkeep admitted flatly. “Of his kin, only the son survived, and he pissed off to Whiterun to become a bloody Companion of all things.”

Egil nodded tightly. “And this Arnbjorn was a failed Companion. That might be worth investigating.”

“Hey, why don’t you go down there and talk to your girlfriend Njada?” Bjarni suggested.

“I was going to send you. Windhelm seems a dangerous place for you at the moment.” Egil gave Ambarys a flat stare. “I’ll forget what you said about my mother as I understand you have some right to… dislike her.”

“Praise Stendarr’s mercy,” Ambarys drawled with his typical sarcasm.

“I’ll ride to the Rift, leave a warning with Leif at Ivarstead. This could be an Imperial plot to pit enemy against enemy,” Ralof offered. “Bjarni, Egil, forgive me but Aurelia’s the one we need to make sure is safe. The world itself depends on it.”

“Given you have ties to the Grey-Manes, the Brotherhood may be expecting Bjarni to go to Whiterun,” Suvaris said slowly.

Bjarni rubbed his eyes, injecting more magicka into the Healing-Galdr. “Son of a bitch, I don’t need this.”

“You’re familiar with our politics,” Egil noted to Suvaris.

“I work for the Shatter-Shields as a factor,” was her dry answer.

“College,” Ambarys suggested. “Faryl, Suvaris, you better go with him. Stop by the Shrine of Azura on the way and consult Aranea Ienith. With dragons in the sky and Brotherhood in the streets, we could use some divine guidance.”

“It’s about damn time an axe was delivered to Balgruuf anyways,” Egil agreed after several moments’ thought. “Korir’s been feeling neglected, so _try_ to butter him up, Bjarni. Exert your charms on a Nord Jarl for a change instead of Dunmer barmaids.”

“I’ll have it put about that Bjarni’s taken the two Dunmer into personal service for saving his life but he needs some more extensive healing than we can give him here,” Ralof added. “That might flush out whoever was responsible.”

“Or make them careless,” Ambarys agreed. “Now, you two go back and get a litter for the wounded hero. No way he could walk back to the Palace.”

“Good idea,” Egil agreed and they were gone.

“Get Teldryn back from Solstheim,” Suvaris said after the Nords had left. “He’s competent enough to survive anything the Nords throw at him… or us.”

“I was going to do that. Morag Tong might be messy.” Ambarys knuckled his eyes. “I’ll write Athis and Irileth, give them a heads up. Failed Companion turned Dark Brother could be dangerous.”

Bjarni accepted another cup of sujamma. “I know Rustem hates my mother, but why would he send a couple Nords to attack me?”

“That’s what I think stinks about this,” Faryl said quietly. “Rustem’s known for avoiding collateral damage. This is too messy, too… obvious.”

“Know him, then?”

“I… work outside the city. A pair of wolves attacked me walking home and this Redguard with a bladed spear killed them before I could even call my Ancestor’s Wrath,” the farmer said quietly. “If he was Dunmer, I’d say he’d been touched by Mephala. There’s a hunger to him that can never be sated. But he doesn’t hurt children or civilians, he told Bothela. He’d had a daughter taken from him.”

“My sister, the Dragonborn,” Bjarni told him.

“That Dibellan w…woman,” Ambarys said slowly.

“Sadri told me she’d Shouted that prick Lortheim on his ass when he called her a fancy whore,” Suvaris said with relish.

“She’s had plenty to say about Talos as a god. Mother went purple when Yrsarald repeated it.” Egil sighed and drank his sujamma. “But you’re right. This reeks. Rustem wouldn’t stoop to that kind of tactic unless we pissed him off and Astrid knows better.”

“All the better for you to go to the College for a bit. Maybe you could train your magic a bit more.” Ambarys grinned. “I got to admit, Ulfric having a wizard son would be almost better than seeing Tullius kick his face in.”

Bjarni smiled thinly. “The Imperials might be kinder to the Dunmer, but they’ll drain you dry as they did us. ‘Be careful what you wish for, because Mephala might be hearing and decide to give it to you’.”

“Velothi proverbs from a Nord,” Ambarys said, shaking his head. “Truly, it’s the end of days.”


	13. Seven Thousand Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, misogyny, slut-shaming and fantastic racism.

“We’ll make a camp outside and wait for you,” Helga Hard-Heart, one of Bjarni’s soldiers, told Aurelia as High Hrothgar came into view. “We can send for new supplies every couple days.”

“Will you be okay?” Aurelia asked, eyeing the desolate plateau dubiously.

“We’re from the Pale, so this is typical weather. Besides, with all the beasties killed, it will be safe to come up and down the seven thousand steps.” Helga’s teeth flashed white in the dusk. “The Throat of the World is considered sacred ground. No Nord would spill human blood on it.”

“Thank you,” Aurelia said softly.

“Kick Alduin’s arse. It’ll be payment enough.”

Aurelia left Klimmek’s dried fish in the offerings chest and then climbed the stairs to enter the bleak stone fortress.

Inside, it was mostly bare stone, clay pots and two inadequate braziers. A man clad in stone-grey robes trimmed with hawk feathers was kneeling in the middle of an inlaid stone diamond, only the rise and fall of his chest proving he was alive. His skin was olive-bronze and his profile aquiline much like her own, but there was a lantern jaw and under-bite visible under his grey hood.

“So, the Wheel turns and the Dragonborn has come to High Hrothgar,” he said in a resonant tenor faintly accented with the familiar burr of a Bruma Nord. “Why have you come, Dragonborn?”

“Because I know what the return of Alduin means,” Aurelia said quietly.

“Do you?” Blue eyes, the colour of copper in fire, snapped open.

“My father, grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great-grandmother were Blades,” she said simply. “Alduin has returned and feeds on the souls of heroes in Sovngarde.”

“A Blade!” the Greybeard spat. “I suppose you desire the death of all dragons?”

“I’m not a Blade, but I know some of their dragonlore.” It took all of Aurelia’s training to keep her tone soothing and pleasant. “Do you want this world to be saved or not? If not, I might as well return to Windhelm and ask Ulfric for all he knows.”

“Ulfric has fallen from grace.” The Greybeard rose and there was a twist to his lips. “Are you truly the Dragonborn? You are dressed more like a-“

One good thing about Unrelenting Force was that the first Word was an excellent demonstration of her power, the equivalent of a punch to the gut. The three other Greybeards were treated to the sight of their compatriot being flung back into a pile of pots.

“My name is Aurelia Ink-Fingers, Illuminator-Curate of the House of Dibella. I am the daughter of Rustem, the granddaughter of Arius, the great-granddaughter of Julius Martin and the great-great-granddaughter of Aurelia Northstar, the Champion of Cyrodiil,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have absorbed the souls of Mirmulnir, Sahloknir and Yolyuvonmiin. I’ve come to you, _as I was called by you,_ and masters of the Voice or not, I won’t tolerate an insult to me or my goddess.”

“Drem, Dovahkiin,” rumbled one of the Greybeards, a tall spare man who looked vaguely familiar, the very stones quaking with his Voice.

The first Greybeard rose to his feet, expression icy. “The gods have made a strange choice in you.”

“Yes, I noticed.” Aurelia took a deep breath and exhaled, releasing all of her anger with it. “I have no interest in conquering, domination or whatever it is Dragonborn do. I can barely cast a Destruction spell. Maybe they thought one Talos was enough.”

“Perhaps there is some hope for you,” the Greybeard said sardonically.

_This is going to be fun,_ Aurelia thought sourly.

…

“You should go to Riften and take the carriage from there,” advised Helga five days later. “It’ll cut through Falkreath and even bandits don’t raid the carriages.”

Aurelia nodded. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but taking Stormcloak troops into an Imperial Hold would be, ah, awkward.”

“Not unless we were taking the place,” Leif the Lonely said with a rare smile. “But… we’ll take you to Riften and then go back to Eastmarch. Egil will need me soon.”

“Thank you.” The Dragonborn bowed from the waist, her hands clasped together in front of her. Her priestly robes were more modest than one expected a Dibellan to wear and every evening when they camped, she checked them for tears and stains before using magic to repair it. Leif thought it a waste of magicka, but he supposed it was her magicka to waste.

“Do you need any money?” he asked. “I know there’s at least one battlemage – some Marcurio – who works out of Riften. Five hundred septims is the standard fee for a sell-spell.”

“Why five hundred septims? That’s more than a yearly wage in Cyrodiil,” Aurelia said.

“Because every non-Companion mercenary has to pay a bond with the Jarl’s court to cover inheritance and funeral expenses if they should die,” Leif told her.

“Ah.” Aurelia nodded once more. “I still have coin, thank you. The Companions insisted on giving me a third-share after Bleak Falls Barrow.”

Leif inclined his head. The priestess asked no special favours nor gave any despite her blood. She’d remained friendly but slightly aloof, shutting down any attempt to inveigle her into someone’s bedroll. _Not_ what everyone expected of a Dibellan.

“There’s a Benevolence of Mara in Riften and I’ve heard of a fairly, ah, popular Dibellan named Haelga,” he continued. “Don’t stick your nose into Black-Briar or Guild business and they’ll leave you alone.”

She nodded. “I’m technically on one crusade. Getting involved in another would make things more difficult.”

“Marcurio’s usually at the Bee and Barb.” Leif knuckled his moustache. “He’s done freelance work for the Stormcloaks before and doesn’t seem invested in Imperial politics… but he is a Cyrod, so he’s probably nominally loyal to them.”

Aurelia wrinkled her nose. “The Empire’s… stable, at least in Cyrodiil. That’s the good thing about it.”

“Choosing security over freedom is a coward’s choice.”

The Dragonborn arched her brows significantly, as Bjarni was wont to do. “I didn’t say it was right. But it is mortal to wish stability, if not peace and prosperity.”

She turned for her bedroll. “Be careful who you call a coward, because I look forward to my life going back to normal once Alduin is dealt with.”

What could he say to that?


	14. Den of Iniquity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, criminal acts, misogyny, slut-shaming, and mentions of imprisonment, sex work, adultery, rape/non-con (yes, I consider someone getting someone else drunk to have sex with them as such), religious conflict, child abandonment, war crimes and genocide. Taking elements from ‘Thieves Guild for Good Guys’ mod as Aurelia isn’t a Thief.

“Hold. Before we let you enter the city, you’ll have to pay the visitor’s tax,” said the gate guard smugly. “For you, a hundred septims will be sufficient.”

Aurelia raised both eyebrows at the guard. “This is the first I’ve heard about it.”

“It’s… new. For the war effort.”

She looked significantly down the hill at a farmer and his handcart. “I better go downhill and do my priestly duty by warning the poor sods coming up this way. A tax that’s worth a third of a servant’s yearly income is… excessive, even by Imperial standards.”

The guard swore under his breath. “Look, fine, just enter!”

She swanned by the guard and entered the big bad city of Riften.

Comprised of grey-brown wood and stone of a similar hue, it was crooked and closed-in, reeking of stagnant water from the canal. Aurelia had barely gone in the direction of the marketplace and what appeared to be the inn when an unshaven lout in rust-splotched armour intercepted her.

“I don’t know you. You in Riften lookin’ for trouble?” he demanded in a hoarse growl.

“Just passing through,” Aurelia sighed.

“Yeah? Well, I got news for you; there's nothing to see here. Last thing the Black-Briars need is some stranger stickin' their nose where it doesn't belong,” he answered.

“I truly, utterly couldn’t give a damn what the Black-Briars do or don’t do so long as it doesn’t violate Dibellan ethics,” Aurelia told him wearily. “I want to find the inn and the battlemage Marcurio.”

“Dibellans have ethics?” the lout asked with a laugh.

“Yes. No rape, no coercion, nothing that violates the universal laws of man and god.” Aurelia stepped around him. “Good day, sir.”

“Keerava doesn’t let whores work out of the Bee and Barb. You’ll need to go to the Bunkhouse for that.” The lout smirked. “But then, Haelga mightn’t want the competition.”

Aurelia ignored him and walked straight for the Bee and Barb. It was going to be a trying evening, it seemed.

The Bee and Barb was cosy but the preaching by the local priest of Mara really killed the atmosphere.

“People of Riften, heed my words. The return of the dragons is not mere coincidence. This is one of the signs. The signs that Lady Mara is displeased with your constant inebriation. Put down your flagons filled with your vile liquids, and embrace the teachings of the handmaiden of Kyne,” preached the man.

“Oh, for Dibella’s sake, Mara has nothing to do with the return of the dragons,” Aurelia said in exasperation. “The Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn’s final sign was fulfilled with the death of High King Torygg and the civil war in Skyrim.”

“And what would you know-?” The Redguard went ashen as he beheld Aurelia in her priestly robes.

“More than you, apparently,” observed a female Argonian in a long-suffering tone. “Maramal, we’ve talked about this.”

“Keerava, certainly we can come to some sort of understanding?” Maramal asked. “These people must be made aware of the chaos they've sown.”

“Enough, Maramal. We've all heard of the dragons and their return. There's no need to use them as an excuse to harass our customers,” said the male Argonian who’d been serving drinks.

Maramal drew up his chin in injured pride. “Very well, Talen. I'll remove myself from this den of iniquity.”

“Praise Dibella,” Aurelia muttered.

“We're not kicking you out, just keep the sermons at the temple and let us all sin in peace,” Talen said, pointing to the door.

The priest of Mara removed himself with an air of dejected contempt and Talen slammed the door shut behind him.

“Drink on the house for you,” Talen said to Aurelia, offering a tankard from his tray.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting it. “Most clergy of Mara are more realistic than that one, I assure you. The House of Dibella actually has a good relationship with them.”

“So you’re a priestess then?”

“I was the last time I checked.” Aurelia sipped from the flagon and tried not to grimace. By mead standards, this was a sour brew. “I’m not part of the sub-order of the Lily Opens, if you’re wondering. I belong to the Gilded Page, which is the sect dedicated to calligraphy and illumination.”

“Huh, never considered there might be different flavours of Dibellan,” Talen admitted with a shrug. “Grab a seat and Keerava will take your food order.”

Aurelia took a seat at the bar as Keerava bustled over. “What brings you to Riften?” she asked.

“A few things, but first and foremost I need to find the battlemage Marcurio and a place which can pay a fair price for gems, precious ores and mammoth ivory,” Aurelia said in a low voice.

“Madesi will buy gems. He’s a Saxhleel jeweller in the marketplace. Tell him Keerava sent you and he’ll give you a good price.” The Argonian wiped down the bar. “Marcurio’s on a job at the moment. Should be back in two days.”

Aurelia winced. “Two days in this city’s going to be fun. I’ve already gone through an attempted extortion and a threat.”

“The ‘visitor’s tax’?” Keerava snorted. “The Guild’s declining if that’s the best they can come up with.”

Talen came over. “You said something about precious gems?” he asked. “Would you happen to have any amethysts?”

Aurelia nodded, dipping inside her robes to the magically sealed pouch within, and pulling out three well-cut amethysts. “Will these do?”

“They’re perfect!” he exclaimed. “It’s for a traditional wedding ring to symbolise-“

“The couple and the Hist,” Aurelia finished with a smile.

“Yes.” Talen exchanged glances with Keerava. “Maramal will do the ceremony once the ring is made.”

Aurelia took the male Argonian’s hand and poured the three flawless amethysts into his palm. “Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love,” she said warmly. “Experience every day as a new one and treasure every experience of joy and love you receive.”

“Thank you.” It was Keerava who spoke. “We… can’t pay you much. But you can stay here and eat with us for free whenever you’re in Riften.”

“I appreciate it. My order does accept alms,” Aurelia said with a smile.

“Have one of my special drinks on the house,” Talen said, smiling. “They're my own recipe. Brought them over here from my days as a bartender in Gideon. First is the ‘Velvet Lechance’ which is a mixture of blackberry, honey, spiced wine and a touch of nightshade... perfectly safe, I assure you. Second, we have the ‘White-Gold Tower’ which is heavy cream with a layer of blended mead, lavender and dragon's tongue on top. Last, and only for the bravest of souls, we have the ‘Cliff Racer’ which is Firebrand Wine, Cyrodiilic Brandy, Flin and Sujamma.”

“I’ll take the ‘White-Gold Tower’,” Aurelia said with a sense of irony.

Talen’s special drink was better than the mead around here and so Aurelia sipped it as she watched the common room. A sour-faced woman with black hair and her chinless son had to be the Black-Briars, while a Dunmer who sat next to Aurelia at the bar was their meadery foreman Indaryn. There was Bolli, who owned the fishery, and the Snow-Shod clan who gathered around one table. Madesi, the jeweller, came in and spoke to his fellow Argonians in their whispered language before taking the other seat at the bar.

“I’m told you have mammoth ivory, gems and ore?” he asked Aurelia politely.

“I do,” she said quietly. “Sapphires, garnet and gold. I gave the amethysts to Talen and Keerava.”

“You are generous.” Madesi gave the common room a quick glance. “I can offer some coin and a piece of jewellery now, if you wish. What I can’t afford, Bersi Honey-Hand will buy at the Pawned Prawn.”

Aurelia produced said items and received a small pouch of coin and a silver necklace set with emeralds in return. She might have gotten more coin on the open market… but well, she would trade now and accept the price with trust in Dibella.

“Thank you, land-strider,” Madesi said gratefully. “May the Hist bless you.”

He drank a tankard of mead and left soon thereafter, a handsome auburn-haired man taking his place. “Never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh lass?”

“Excuse me?” Aurelia asked, arching her eyebrows.

“I'm saying you've got the coin, but you didn't earn a septim of it honestly. I can tell,” he said with a roguish smile.

“If you don’t consider my work as a Dibellan priestess honest work, then I’d invite you to go fuck yourself, because no self-respect Dibellan will,” Aurelia shot back acidly.

His green eyes widened and then he burst into laughter. “I suppose I had that coming, lass. I… mistook your trade and the source of your wealth.”

“You mean you thought she was a Thief like you, Brynjolf,” Talen said bluntly as he came over. “You here to extort money from us again or will you actually pay for something this time around?”

Brynjolf grimaced. “Mercer’s saying your fees are due. But…”

“Trade’s down because of those damned dragons,” Keerava told him. “You can’t squeeze blood from a stone.”

“I know, lass. It’s Mercer on my arse…” Brynjolf spread his hands helplessly.

“If Mercer’s too stupid to know when to lay off someone, get yourselves a new Guildmaster,” Aurelia suggested as she accepted a bowl of vegetable stew from Keerava. “The dragons aren’t going anywhere until the Dragonborn does something about it, and she can’t do a damn thing about it until Marcurio comes back from his job, takes her to Hjaalmarch to do something, and gets some more teaching from the Greybeards.”

“Wait a minute – Vex said the Dragonborn was a priestess…” Brynjolf’s eyes widened again. “You’re the Dragonborn?”

“So three dragon souls and the Greybeards tell me,” Aurelia confirmed. “I’d Shout but… well.”

Brynjolf jerked his head at the door. “Eat that, lass, and have a chat with me outside.”

“Pardon my scepticism, but I’d prefer witnesses to our conversation,” she drawled. “I didn’t come down in the last shower.”

He laughed shortly. “If Maramal had half your brains, half of Riften wouldn’t hate him.”

She ate her meal quickly and followed Brynjolf to the table the Black-Briars had just vacated. Talen brought some mead and left them alone, but she could feel the common room straining to eavesdrop.

“We’ve got a lad in the Ratway claiming that the dragons are the end of the world,” Brynjolf said without preamble, his lazy brogue becoming more brisk and business-like. “Is that true?”

“Only if I can’t defeat Alduin,” Aurelia told him quietly. “The Greybeards want me to go tomb-crawling in Hjaalmarch before they’ll teach me more of the Thu’um. It’s tedious, but I really have no other choice.”

“Old Esbern’s always babbling about dragons-“

“Esbern?” she hissed. “Old, kind of plummy high-class accent?”

“Aye, lass.” Brynjolf’s expression was grim. “You know him?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Can I see him? It’s more urgent than you can possibly imagine.”

He leaned back in his seat. “There’s a job I need doing. Brand-Shei’s pissed off the Black-Briars and…”

…

Brynjolf had seen many a priest in (self-)righteous fury but the very public, very _loud_ upbraiding that Aurelia Ink-Fingers delivered to Haelga was something else entirely. He could well believe the woman was the Dragonborn by the way her voice carried across the marketplace, followed by the sound of her palm cracking against both of the Bunkhouse’s owner’s cheeks. Then she tore the Amulet of Dibella from the woman’s neck and told her that if she didn’t get her arse to Markarth and beg the Goddess for forgiveness, she’d be cast out for abusing the Divine’s grace and strictures.

This morning had been a good one. Aurelia had persuaded Brand-Shei to keep his mouth shut instead of framing him, which worked for Brynjolf as he did quite like the Dunmer, and castigated Haelga for her actions. Not the sleeping around but the fact she’d committed adultery, gotten a man drunk in order to fuck him, and mistreated her niece.

He was just packing up the Falmerblood Elixir for the night as Aurelia sold some things to Grelka and Madesi. She’d spent all day running errands between the Benevolence of Mara, the Bee and Barb, the marketplace and even Mistveil Keep. She’d even given a coin to the two beggars. Maven had sneered and called her a fool… but not in the priestess’ hearing. The Black-Briar matriarch claimed to be an atheist but Brynjolf knew she was deeply superstitious in her way.

“Well, lass, if you wanted to be a Thane you’d just need to buy some property and make yourself at home,” he remarked as Aurelia drew near.

“I’m already a Thane in Whiterun,” she said with a grimace. “Balgruuf was trying to play politics.”

“Aye, but it grants you diplomatic immunity even the Stormcloaks will respect,” he advised her.

“The Stormcloaks have been helpful,” she said quietly. “Ulfric was trained as a Greybeard.”

“Aye, I know,” Brynjolf said bitterly. “He killed my da during the Markarth Incident and the Stormsword had my mother executed for ‘collaborating with the enemy’.”

Her blue-green eyes were sad. “I’m sorry. I’d heard the stories, even in Anvil…”

Brynjolf shook his head. “Come, lass. Esbern’s a night owl and you’ve earned an escort through the Ratways.”

She sighed. “In the interests of disclosure, I should tell you I’m the product of the Stormsword’s first marriage to Rustem Aurelius, who was the son of the Blades Grandmaster of the time. Is that going to affect anything? I understand if it does.”

He was too shocked to feel angry. “How’d the daughter of the Stormsword become a Dibellan?”

“She left me in Cyrodiil,” Aurelia said icily. “She told me she thought I was dead and when she found out otherwise, she decided I was too Imperialised to be worth bringing to Skyrim.”

“I can tell you now she claimed to have gone virgin to Ulfric’s bed,” he told her bluntly.

“Yes, I know.”

Finally, he just had to laugh. “Becoming a decadent Dibellan is probably the greatest ‘fuck you’ you’d give the woman. I just settled for sneaking into the Palace of the Kings when I was young and stupid, then running her underwear up the flagstaff in the courtyard.”

He got a delighted laugh from her. “How? And why?”

So he told her on the way to the Ragged Flagon and learned quite a bit about her life as a Dibellan priestess, which was far more complex and less sexual than he expected. They didn’t wind up finding Esbern that night, instead sharing mead and then a bed Vekel kept for assignations. Of all the things he ever expected to find, a measure of peace and healing from the daughter of Sigdrifa Stormsword wasn’t one of them.

But he’d take it and treasure the experience.


	15. Family Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for alcohol use and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, adultery, misogyny, slut-shaming, rape/non-con and discussions of a sexual nature.

“You know, Bryn’s going to be completely insufferable for the next few weeks because he seduced a Dibellan priestess,” the albino Colovian remarked to the shaven-headed Breton she shared a table with as Aurelia emerged from the guest room.

“I know, lucky bastard,” the Breton observed with a leer. “I’d be happy to show you some of the Dibellan Arts _I_ know…”

“Don’t make me laugh,” the albino retorted. “I’ve got a dick in my drawer that won’t grunt when I’m fucking myself with it.”

Aurelia stifled a laugh and their eyes swung towards her.

“I take it Bryn’s performance was… satisfactory?” asked the albino. “If not, I’ll kick his ass for you. A man his age should know how to give someone an orgasm by now.”

“It was,” Aurelia said with a wry smile. “I’m Aurelia.”

“Vex. The bald one’s Delvin.” The pale Thief leaned back in her seat, tearing a half-loaf of bread in two. “What brings a Dibellan priestess to the Ragged Flagon aside from Brynjolf’s dubious charms?”

“I need to speak to Esbern about dragons,” Aurelia told them. “I… persuaded Brand-Shei to shut up yesterday and so Bryn’s given me free passage through the Ratway.”

“He’s nuttier than a fruitcake,” Delvin pointed out.

“I knew him before he came here. He is a master of dragonlore,” Aurelia replied carefully.

“He was a Blade,” Vex said bluntly.

“I was _trying_ to be tactful,” Aurelia noted. “The Thalmor have ears everywhere.”

“He’s paid for sanctuary. That means we protect him.” Vex tapped the empty chair. “Besides, fuck the Thalmor.”

“No, thank you. I have standards.” Aurelia took the seat.

“You screwed Brynjolf. That’s up for debate,” Delvin drawled.

“I don’t think a man who got turned down in favour of a dildo should make commentary on my standards,” Aurelia said sardonically.

Vex roared with laughter as Delvin reddened. “I like you!”

Aurelia grinned. “I’m flattered, but I try not to sleep with two people from the same group. It saves awkward conversations.”

“As wise as you are beautiful.” Brynjolf took the last seat at the table and waved the barkeep over. “Got any breakfast, Vekel? Put Aurelia’s food on my tab.”

“I can pay,” Aurelia began, only to be shushed by Vex.

“You assisted Brynjolf in a job. That makes you an associate of ours,” the Thief explained. “Not a full member but you get some… perks.”

Vekel, a slightly weasel-faced Nord, wandered over with bread and cheese. “One of the beggars told me the Brotherhood’s in town.”

“Oh?” Delvin asked.

“Yeah. The schism’s official. Turned out that Redguard with the bladed spear’s the new fucking Listener and Astrid’s fit to be tied.” He cut up the bread and cheese, putting on a plate between Aurelia and Brynjolf. “You’re Night Master, Delvin. What do we do?”

“Sithis is one of the most ancient gods,” Bryn said quietly. “Astrid’s been pissing on the Five Tenets for years.”

“Astrid’s still got credit with us,” Delvin told him.

“Until there’s a clear winner, we’re neutral,” Vex decided. “I’ve seen Rustem in action.”

Aurelia lowered the piece of cheese she’d been about to nibble on. “Redguard, older male?”

“Aye, lass. Thinks he’s the gods’ gift to women everywhere,” Brynjolf told her.

She wrinkled her nose. “He’s my father.”

“Fuck me dead,” Vex said in a surprised tone.

“It gets better. Her mother’s Sigdrifa Stormsword,” Brynjolf added cheerfully.

“It… wasn’t a good marriage. They weren’t compatible on every level,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “Being raised by the House of Dibella was probably the best thing to happen to me, seeing how my parents turned out.”

“Rustem’s a pretty decent bloke,” Delvin assured her. “You should see what he does to rapists.”

Vex patted her shoulder. “Eat your breakfast and we’ll go to Esbern. You don’t need to speak to him if you don’t want to.”

“No.” Aurelia took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I should talk to him. I didn’t have the courage to face my mother in Windhelm but… he was never a cruel father, only an absent, self-absorbed one.”

Still, she fortified herself with a couple flagons of mead before her father arrived. Vekel watered down the mead, so it didn’t taste so sour. And they called Black-Briar the best.

The first thing she noticed about Rustem Aurelius was despite being in his fifties, he was in superb state with only the iron-grey in his hair an indication of his age. The second thing she noticed was the madly grinning jester by his side who hopped from foot to foot gleefully.

“Cicero,” Delvin said with a groan. “He’s mad as a First Seed hare.”

“Poor Cicero is not mad. He sees clearly where others do not!” protested the jester. “The Fool of Hearts, for instance, sees a dragon in a woman’s skin at your table.”

“Cal…” Her father paused and collected himself. “ _Aurelia._ What the hell are you doing in Riften?”

“Waiting for a battlemage to come back so I can go to Ustengrav as per the Greybeards’ instructions,” she answered carefully.

“Wait, you screwed the bloody Dragonborn?” Delvin demanded of Brynjolf.

“It was a mutual seduction, we quite enjoyed ourselves, and if anyone wants to make something of it, I will demonstrate the Thu’um on their arse,” Aurelia said firmly.

“I’m a lot of things but I try not to be a hypocrite,” Rustem observed after a moment’s silence. “I’m glad to see you, Aurelia. I’ve got my people watching over you. If you die, it’s the end of the world.”

Aurelia was surprised to be wiping tears from her eyes. How was it that she distrusted Bjarni and Egil’s offers of assistance at first but was moved by her father’s?

“Esbern’s here. In Riften,” she told him, her voice soft. “I need the Blades dragonlore.”

“He’s in the Warrens,” Brynjolf said grimly.

“Then I’ll go with you. I’ve got a nice little house in the Pale he can stay at. No offence, folks, but this place isn’t good for an old man’s lungs.” Rustem brushed back his braids. “I know Astrid’s credit is her own but do I have enough with you lot to set a couple Thieves on getting as much intelligence about the dragons as we can? I’m talking about breaking into the Palace of the Kings, Castle Dour and the Thalmor Embassy.”

“The Guild isn’t taking sides in your little quarrel with Astrid,” Delvin told him frankly.

“I’m not talking about Astrid. I’ll deal with her. But the dragons mean the end of the world – and you should have a vested interest in helping us.” Rustem’s deep, sensuous voice and his bright blue eyes were serious. “I’ll pay fairly. I don’t expect you to work for free.”

“Ten thousand septims for the risks you’re asking us to take,” Delvin replied after a moment’s thought.

“Goods or coin?”

“Any, either, and/or,” the Night Master answered.

Rustem hefted up a heavy pack to the bar. “Enchanted shit I’ve acquired on my jobs. If more’s owed, let me know.”

Brynjolf rose to his feet. “Well, then. We’ll go see Esbern while they’ll tally it up. You know fenced stuff’s worth one-third value, right?”

He nodded. “I do.”

The Vaults managed to be worse than the Ratway she’d traversed last night with Brynjolf. “I suppose you’re not happy with me,” Rustem said quietly as they walked along. “I didn’t know you were alive for five years and well…”

“I suppose I was too Imperialised for Hammerfell?” Aurelia asked, managing to keep most of the bitterness from her voice.

“Beroc and Safiya couldn’t find a way to extract you without interference from the Penitus Oculatus,” he said with a sigh. “So I snuck into Anvil and had a discussion with the High Prelate of Dibella. Then I left enough money to cover your training as a calligrapher and to make sure no one sent you to be a chaplain in the Anvil Third.”

“I never knew,” Aurelia said softly.

“I didn’t want you to know. I… thought it was for the best, because Mede would have found a way to get you killed if he knew you’d had contact with me.”

“Mede’s a right cunt, isn’t he?” Brynjolf remarked ahead of them.

“He is. Thankfully…” Rustem glanced at Aurelia and let the sentence trail off. “Daughter, so long as I am Listener, me and mine will keep you safe. Not just because you’re Dragonborn but because you’re family. I’ve already had to head off a Penitus Oculatus agent who was looking for you.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He bowed his head. And then the evil grin she remembered from her childhood bloomed across his face. “So, how’d your mother take the news?”


	16. Hope Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of criminal acts, imprisonment, war crimes, genocide, religious conflict, child abandonment and child neglect.

There were always a few people stupid enough to attack the Day Master and the Listener, even in the Ratway Vaults, but none of them stood a chance when a Dragonborn could use one Word – a single Word! – to knock them down as effectively as a shield bash.

Esbern lived behind a door with more locks on it than the Emperor’s granddaughter’s bedchamber. “Go away!” the old man yelled when Rustem knocked. “I’m just nobody!”

“Open the damn door or it will be opened,” Rustem told him.

_“Rustem?”_ A slit in the door opened to reveal Esbern’s blue-grey eyes. “By the Nine it _is_ you…”

“Time to pick up your wazikashi and rejoin the fight, old man,” Rustem said softly. “Alduin flies again.”

“Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said! The Dragon from the dawn of time, who devours the souls of the dead! No one can escape his hunger, here or in the afterlife! Alduin will devour all things and the world will end. Nothing can stop him. I tried to tell them. They wouldn't listen. Fools. It's all come true... all I could do was watch our doom approach...” There was a shudder in Esbern’s voice.

“I don’t recall you being that hopeless,” Aurelia observed gently. “It’s not hopeless, Esbern. _I’m_ the Dragonborn.”

“What? You're... can it really be true? Dragonborn? Then... then there is hope! The gods have not abandoned us! We must... we must... We must go, quickly now.” Esbern’s ability to change his line of thought at the drop of a hat was still intact.

“I’ve got a safe place for you to stay up in the Pale,” Rustem assured him. “Just don’t mind the Brotherhood sorts coming and going. They’ll leave you alone.”

Esbern was unlocking the door. “ _You’re_ Brotherhood? I’d’ve thought Irkand would join them, if he wasn’t dead.”

“He’s alive. Because he saved the Emperor’s life, he was allowed to join the Order of the Circle of Arkay,” Aurelia explained to him. “He pulled some strings and got me put into the House of Dibella instead of the Imperial Workhouse.”

“Delphine and I came to the conclusion he was the one who betrayed Arius to the Emperor,” Esbern said as he opened the door.

“ _That_ was Dengeir,” Rustem said grimly.

“Oh no. Delphine and I sent brethren after him as a traitor.” Esbern looked sick.

“She’s alive too,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “She didn’t hang around long enough to tell me how she felt about me being Dragonborn.”

“You’re not the muscle-bound moron she hoped for,” Esbern said with a sigh of his own. “Now come and help me pack.”

The old mage still had lots of books, some of which Rustem recognised from Cloud Ruler Temple, and soon enough they were all toting heavy packs, even Brynjolf.

“You’ll like my place,” Rustem assured him as they moved through the corridors. “Fresh air, sunlight…”

“I’ve always preferred to be inside with my books,” Esbern said.

“Can you give me a place to contact you?” Aurelia asked. “I think Marcurio the battlemage should be back by now and I need to get to Hjaalmarch. The Greybeards are waiting on the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller.”

“You’re cooperating with the Greybeards?” Esbern asked in disbelief. “They protect Paarthurnax!”

“It may come as a surprise to you, Esbern, but I don’t get off on killing the repentant,” was her acidic response. “I’m a priest, dammit. I should be better than that.”

“Your mother wouldn’t,” Rustem noted.

“Even Bjarni and Egil concede she’s a little cracked.”

“Paarthurnax committed terrible atrocities!” Esbern protested.

“So did the Blades under Arius.” Aurelia’s tone was flat.

“No one has clean hands in this world, lad,” Brynjolf pointed out. “I’m guessing Paarthurnax is a dragon?”

“He’s the dragon who taught the Thu’um to humanity at the behest of Kynareth,” Aurelia told the Day Master. “He’s lived on the Throat of the World ever since.”

“If he didn’t start chowing down on people with no Dragonborn around, I doubt he’s about to start now,” Brynjolf said. “Sometimes you should let sleeping dragons lie.”

“Sensible man,” Rustem approved.

They returned to the Ragged Flagon, where Cicero was entertaining the Thieves with tricks and tales of gruesome murder. “So you survived the Vaults,” observed Tonilia, another Redguard. “Nice haul you brought in, by the way. I’ve already got buyers for it.”

“So you’ll gather intelligence about the dragons for me?” Rustem asked.

“Mercer’s saying it’s not our problem,” Vex said with a tightening of her lips.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Mercer’s a fucking idiot,” Rustem told her bluntly. “I doubt the Thalmor know anything but who knows? I know they went through the Cloud Ruler archives.”

“Give us a few weeks,” Brynjolf soothed, removing his pack of books. “At the very least, we’ll get what we can from the Imperials and the Stormcloaks. If it comes up short, we’ll give you a credit with Tonilia.”

“Works for me,” Rustem assured him.

“Thank you for everything,” Aurelia told them all.

“Have a word with Dibella for me,” Brynjolf suggested with a roguish grin. “I could use the divine blessing.”

She laughed. “It doesn’t work that way. You need to go and pray at one of Her shrines.”

Outside the Ratway, it was a purple-grey dusk. Esbern had wrapped himself in a hooded cloak.

“I’ll head back to the Bee and Barb,” Aurelia said quietly. “Father… Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Rustem smiled. “When this is over, come to Hammerfell. Cirroc should know his sister.”

“And the Redguards could use my Voice?” Aurelia was already shaking her head. “The Greybeards are right. This is a holy thing and I shouldn’t use it lightly.”

She stepped over and kissed Esbern on the forehead. “After I’ve returned to High Hrothgar with the Horn, I’ll catch up with you. It’s going to take all of us to defeat Alduin, so try to keep an open mind.”

“Keep yourself alive,” Esbern said softly. “If you die, we all do.”

“I know,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “No pressure at all.”


	17. Falkreath-Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, alcohol use, misogyny, slut-shaming and mentions of criminal acts, rape/non-con, imprisonment and war crimes.

“With a master of magic at your side, you’ll have nothing to fear!” Marcurio announced after she’d paid his fee and signed a mercenary bond in front of Anuriel, the Rift’s Steward.

“I hope not,” Aurelia said dryly.

There was the usual buying of supplies, a round of farewells and one final night at the Bee and Barb before they went to the stables in the predawn light to wait for the carriage. Despite the early hour, Hofgrir and Shadr were mucking out the stables. “Thanks for getting Sapphire off my back,” the young Redguard said gratefully.

“Never mind Sapphire,” Hofgrir said as he forked some soiled straw into a pit. “Watching you slap Haelga made my Era.”

“She violated the tenets of Dibella,” Aurelia told the stablemaster quietly. “If she wants the Divine’s blessing back, she’s got a long trip to Markarth or even Cyrodiil.”

“Well, you may not be Redguard but there’s Yokudan in you,” Shadr said warmly.

“Thank you. I hope your tack-selling business gets off the ground.”

“I’d heard about your plethora of good deeds,” Marcurio observed as Aurelia rejoined him. “I thought it was Mara who did charity, not Dibella.”

“I was paid for a few of those errands,” Aurelia told him wryly. “As for the rest of it… Well, all that comes to me is a gift of the gods and not for me to hoard. I will share it gladly and trust in Dibella to provide.”

The carriage arrived and it was a quiet trip in the Rift, the wagon passing through Shor’s Stone and Ivarstead before coming to the border with Falkreath. “Haemar’s Pass,” grunted the driver as he stopped to water and feed his horse. “We’ll be passing by Helgen.”

“If we could spare some time, I’d like to examine the ruins,” Marcurio said. “I can’t believe anything short of Direnni Fire could cause such devastation.”

“Your average dragon’s about the size of a house with a wingspan of three times that and is capable of producing a sustained blast of fire or frost that comes from their superior lung capacity and the power of the Thu’um,” Aurelia informed him. “The best use of tactics is to throw lightning spells at one, Ward against the Shouts, and try to damage the wings so that it’s more vulnerable on the ground.”

“I didn’t realise they taught Dibellans how to kill dragons,” Marcurio observed with a sniff.

“ _I’m_ the Dragonborn.” Aurelia smiled sweetly. “Just think, Cyrodiil’s greatest master of the arcane has been hired to assist me in saving the world.”

Haemar’s Pass was quiet and they emerged in the evergreen forests of Falkreath. “Ah, Falkreath,” Marcurio said sourly as they travelled along the poorly maintained road. “Where it rains always.”

“You could be freezing your arse off in Bruma,” Aurelia pointed out as she wrapped an oilskin cloak around herself.

“I’d sooner live in Coldharbour.”

They stopped outside Falkreath-town to change carriages, with this one going to Whiterun and then Hjaalmarch. Aurelia looked at the muddle of wooden huts with their thatched roofs surrounded by a shabby palisade and shuddered slightly. Her mother had been born there.

“Lovely place,” Marcurio said sardonically. “The last Jarl was insane and the current one’s a spendthrift toady of the Thalmor’s. Not to mention the fact it produced the Stormsword.”

Aurelia sighed. “Well, we have a few hours to kill and it’d look odd if we didn’t visit the pub. Let’s get some food and mead.”

The morbidly named Deadman’s Drink suited Falkreath’s funereal atmosphere. “How much for meat, mead and a wash before the carriage to Whiterun comes?” Aurelia asked the innkeeper, a blowsy-looking Colovian woman.

“Twenty septims,” she said.

The aforementioned sum produced a lukewarm bath, a slice of dry roast on stale bread, and mead that had been watered down to the point of tasting like honey-water. Aurelia supposed Valga at least used _water_ in the barrels. Maven’s brew tasted like piss.

“Mead!” demanded a bleary-eyed balding nobleman in crumpled fur-trimmed robes that had seen better days.

“Yes, Thane Dengeir,” one of the maids said hastily, running over with a tankard.

_“It was Dengeir,”_ Rustem told Aurelia and Esbern when the fall of Cloud Ruler Temple was discussed.

Looking at the man who’d aided in the ruin and destruction of hundreds of lives, all Aurelia could feel was a weary contempt. Dengeir had the grease-yellow eyes of a man steadily drinking himself to death and even the locals didn’t seem to respect him much.

“What are you looking at, whore?” Dengeir sneered. “Go back to Hammerfell where you belong!”

“My mother was a Nord,” Aurelia said softly.

“Always a few Nords willing to whore themselves to Dibella.” Dengeir drained his flagon. “I suppose you’re one of Balgeir’s get. Talos knows he was a slut.”

“No, it was my mother who was the Nord.” Aurelia downed half a flagon of the weak mead. “She just left me in Cyrodiil and pretended she went virgin to her second husband’s bed.”

“Fuck,” swore the other oldster, a burly man in leather armour.

“Now Berit’s dead, you’re not doing much of that anymore,” smirked Dengeir, holding out his flagon for more mead.

“Priestess, can I ask a favour?” the old warrior asked. _“Outside.”_

Aurelia finished the rest of her mead, jerked her chin at Marcurio, and stepped out onto the porch.

The old warrior ran his hands through his prodigious sideburns before speaking. “It’ll take Dengeir a few minutes to realise who you are. Can you run my Berit’s ashes down to Runil at the Hall of the Dead? I’ll distract the old bastard for a few more minutes.”

“I didn’t mean to make trouble,” Aurelia said contritely. “I…”

“Dengeir’s a cunt who’s betrayed every oath he’s ever made and he wonders why the Forsworn cursed him,” said the old warrior bluntly. “Balgeir should have been Jarl, but Rustem killed him in Hammerfell – not that I blame the man, given Balgeir was a prick.”

“Who the hell are you?” Marcurio demanded.

“Thadgeir.”

“He’s my granduncle,” Aurelia told the battlemage. “That shithead in the pub’s my maternal grandfather.”

“Aye.” Thadgeir held up a small ceramic urn. “Berit never liked the cold, so I burned him. Just need Runil to lay him to rest.”

She took the urn. “I’ll deliver it.”

“Thank you.” Thadgeir’s smile was melancholy. “Shame you’re a priest. Falkreath needs a good Jarl.”

“So go for the Stag Throne. Siddgeir bilked me on a job and Dengeir wanted to send me after vampires,” Marcurio suggested with a wrinkled nose.

“I thought you were familiar.” Thadgeir sighed. “Now go before Dengeir puts two and two together.”

Runil was an elderly Altmer who’d admitted to being part of the Thalmor before he found Arkay during the Great War. “Thank you,” he said softly as he took the urn from her hands. “If I hadn’t been busy with Lavinia’s funeral, I’d have seen to Berit’s burning myself. He and Thadgeir were married for a long, long time.”

“Is there ever a day around here without a funeral?” Marcurio asked dryly.

“Sometimes. I sleep in during those days.” Runil sighed and produced a pouch of coin. “Go in peace, Dragonborn. The Nine have every faith in you.”

“You really _are_ the Dragonborn,” Marcurio observed in a shaken voice as they went to the gate to wait for the carriage. “So, where to now?”

“Whiterun, to pick up my huscarl Lydia, then to Hjaalmarch,” Aurelia answered with a sigh. “Gods above, but I hate this place. The sooner I get the dust of it from my boots, the better.”


	18. The Winterhold Rift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

Bjarni entered the Frozen Hearth with a grimace. “Jarl Korir hasn’t changed a bit,” he observed sourly as he strode over to the bar.

Dagur, the innkeeper, laughed wryly. “Nor is he about to. What’ll be your pleasure?”

“Sujamma or flin if you have it. The wind out there’s a bit nippy.”

Suvaris refrained from observing that it was practically a blizzard outside. Nords were as resistant to wind and snow as the Dunmer were to ash and fire. To someone like Bjarni, who lived in the permafrost of Eastmarch, it was probably ‘a bit nippy’. Cold enough to wear a bearskin cloak, at least.

Beside her, Faryl was warming his hands over the brazier Dagur had thoughtfully set up. Ambarys’ suggestion they leave the city was a wise one but it would make for a long cold exile. The Atherons had never been warriors or mages, only simple mer living as semi-skilled labourers before and after the Red Year. Working for Torbjorn Shatter-Shield and Bothela Brandy-Mug had been trying at times but they were given a modicum of civility by most respectable Nords. Their lives had been comfortable and predictable.

“Do you need extra furs?” Bjarni asked solicitously as he sat down at their table, jar of sujamma in hand. “Korir was bitching about the snowy sabre cats and ice wolves plaguing the road to Dawnstar. I could take some men and clear them out.”

“You’re still recovering from the attack,” Suvaris reminded him and then bit her lip. “Muthsera, I apologise-“

“You’re right,” the young Nord interrupted with a sigh. “This place is such a disorganised shitshow that I’m getting ahead of myself and forgetting I’m injured.”

“I’d start with the College, myself,” Faryl suggested tentatively. “Korir couldn’t find a clue if you gave him a map to one.”

Bjarni laughed shortly. “You’re not wrong about that.”

“His Steward, Malur, might be part of the problem,” Suvaris mused. “I remember him from Windhelm. He’s a lazy mer with the soul of a con artist. Can you believe he asked me to steal a staff from Nelacar so he could pretend to be a mage?”

“Wonderful.” Bjarni drank some sujamma. “I intend to become Thane of Winterhold. That means we need to locate the Helm of Winterhold and help three people.”

“I thought there was a property requirement to be Thane?” Suvaris asked with a furrowed brow.

“In the smaller Holds, it’s often waived,” Bjarni explained. “But first things first. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to the Archmage Savos Aren. You’re welcome to join me if you want.”

The next day, wrapped in furs Bjarni had brought from the local merchant, they approached the bridge that crossed the chasm to the College of Winterhold.”

“Cross the bridge at your own peril! The way is dangerous, and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry!” announced the Altmer who stood in the shadows of the gate.

“I know Korir’s not the most friendly Jarl, but I didn’t know things had deteriorated to the point where you were actively barring people from entering the College grounds,” Bjarni replied, shaking back his bearskin cloak to reveal his bear-embossed silver-steel bracers. “Bjarni Ulfricsson. I need to speak to your best healer and the Archmage. The two Dunmer are my retainers Suvaris and Faryl Atheron.”

The womer’s expression became a shade less wary. “Your reputation precedes you, Lord Bjarni, but the College is apolitical and wishes to remain so.”

“We had a long cold ride here and my lord Bjarni is still injured from an attempted murder in Windhelm,” Suvaris informed the mage, assuming the slight hauteur she used when dealing with recalcitrant Nords on the Shatter-Shields’ behalf. “Unless your healer feels like coming to the inn in this weather…”

“Prying Colette out of her office is a miracle on any day, let alone one like this,” the womer said dryly. “Very well, I will escort you to Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard. Stay close to me. The winds are blustery today.”

She led them across the bridge and Faryl wrinkled his nose. “You’ve an Illusion on this,” he observed. “I can smell it.”

“You have a keen nose,” the mage said. “It is no great secret that we have been unjustly blamed for a great many things over the years. The good people of Skyrim on occasion would rather pass judgement than attempt to understand what we do here. Thus we must take certain precautions in order to secure our safety.”

“Scholasticism isn’t exactly prized in the Old Holds,” Bjarni agreed ruefully. “I use some Destruction and my brother Egil Restoration, but the Thanes still bitch and moan about evil elven magic corrupting the youth of today.”

“We established a long time ago you were probably one of the smarter Stormcloaks,” Faryl drawled.

“My parents are zealous, not stupid.”

The College courtyard was magically shielded from the wind and from the gate, Suvaris could hear two people arguing. “Ancano,” the Altmer said with a grimace. “He’s the Thalmor ‘adviser’ we can’t just feed to a passing snow bear because half the faculty still have family in the Dominion and Elenwen threatened to have them killed if he died.”

“Send him across the bridge and I’ll deal with the problem,” Bjarni offered in typical Nord fashion.

“They’d still die,” the sallow-skinned womer said grimly.

Ancano threw up his hands and stalked into the nearest building, leaving the small, neat-looking Breton who had to be Mirabelle Ervine, if the ornateness of her robes was anything to go by.

“Faralda, none of these people look like would-be Apprentices,” the Master Wizard said with some asperity.

“Bjarni Ulfricsson has requested to see a healer and speak to the Archmage,” Faralda said neutrally.

“Of course he has,” Mirabelle said dryly. “You _did_ make our apolitical stance clear?”

“I did. But it’ll do Colette some good to get out of her office and Savos is always complaining the Nords don’t respect us.” Faralda shrugged slightly. “So I’ve made it your problem.”

“Thanks,” Mirabelle observed.

“You’re welcome.” Faralda nodded and turned for the bridge.

Mirabelle sighed. “Well, come on then. I think Colette’s lecturing in the Hall of the Elements. She could use a live model to demonstrate healing techniques on.”

Suvaris raised her eyebrows as they followed. She was beginning to think the rift between Winterhold and the College was neither one-sided nor simply physical. This could be… interesting.


	19. A Nord Holy Site

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child death. Happy New Year, readers!

Spending two days investigating a murder that snowballed into a potential vampiric takeover of the small town of Morthal hadn’t been in Aurelia’s plans but she could have hardly walked away from it either, not when she had a huscarl and a battlemage on hand. Marcurio lived up to his inflated ego and Lydia proved she was an elite warrior during the execution of Morvath and his minion Ava. Now, finally, they could enter Ustengrav.

Except, Hjaalmarch being ‘a weird bog full of weird bog people’ to quote Marcurio, there were necromancers attempting to raise the hundreds of Greybeards interred there. After Aurelia took one look in the first chamber and saw two of them arguing with word of more inside, she’d retreated with a curse unbefitting a priestess of Dibella.

“We should wait until dawn,” Marcurio suggested. “Necromancers and draugr are sluggish in the daylight.”

Aurelia grimaced. “Let’s try to find a dry spot here. Tomorrow is going to be awful.”

That dry spot was inhabited by an entire camp of Stormcloak troops.

“Shit fuck dammit,” Aurelia swore.

“Hold!” snapped a sentry from behind them.

“Lower your bow, new blood,” ordered a familiar growl. “She’s the Dragonborn.”

“Galmar,” Aurelia said, turning to face Ulfric’s grizzled commander. “Fancy seeing you here.”

The Stone-Fist gave a crooked grin. “Ulfric said you’d be along soon enough and since we need to take the Hold anyway…”

Lydia flashed Aurelia a sharp glance. “You’re allied with the Stormcloaks?”

“The Stormcloaks are willing to assist the Dragonborn,” Galmar corrected.

“I think we have a solution to our necromancer problem in Ustengrav,” remarked Marcurio.

Galmar’s eyes narrowed. “Necromancers in Jurgen Windcaller’s tomb?”

“They’re trying to weaponise the dead Greybeards for an unknown patron,” Aurelia said disgustedly.

“Desecrating a Nord holy site…” Galmar said grimly. “Probably the damn Thalmor. The Imperials under Rikke wouldn’t stoop that low.”

He tugged on his long beard. “We’ve got some injured soldiers in the camp, Aurelia, and you’re a fair hand at Restoration. You heal them, I can spare nine good men and myself to help you in Ustengrav. An army of undead Tongues is a fearful thing.”

“I can do that,” Aurelia said softly. “After all, the Penitus Oculatus has already sent one person after me.”

“Damn faithless Imperials,” Galmar said in disgust. “Come on. You can share our camp for the night.”

Thankfully, most of the soldiers Aurelia needed to heal were suffering relatively simple injuries, but two had to be given the mercy-stroke as they were beyond her capacity. The local commander was a man named Arrald Frozen-Heart, a hunter out of Morthal, and Aurelia was unsurprised to see Ralof and some of Bjarni’s elite soldiers among the warriors.

“How are the boys?” she asked Galmar after accepting a bowl of stew from the camp cook.

Galmar sighed. “Bjarni’s up in Winterhold because a couple mercenaries tried to murder him after his weekly audience in the Grey Quarters. My bet is the Imperials hired them because no dark elf would be so stupid, not when he’s one of the few who try to help them.”

“Is he alright?”

“Healing. He’s tougher than you think.” Galmar drank some mead. “Egil’s handling another Hold. Whether we go to war or not depends on how wise its Jarl is.”

“Why do you care about the boys?” Lydia asked.

“They share the same mother as I do,” Aurelia admitted.

“I thought Ulfric was Sigdrifa’s first husband?” Lydia asked in disbelief.

“No, her second. Because she thought I was dead and my father was in Hammerfell, she pretended otherwise,” Aurelia said, dipping some flatbread into the stew. “My family history is complicated. It’s one of the reasons why I didn’t stay around in Whiterun.”

“Sounds like you’ve picked a side, Dragonborn,” Lydia said flatly.

Aurelia’s fingers tightened around the rim of the wooden bowl. “Maybe if your uncle had gotten off his arse and made a choice, the civil war would have been over sooner.”

“I will accompany you to Ustengrav as I’ve vowed to do, but when this is over, I’ll be returning to my uncle and telling him your interests don’t seem to align with Whiterun’s,” the huscarl said grimly.

“And if Balgruuf chooses to keep Ulfric’s axe?” Galmar asked calmly.

“That’s my Jarl’s call. But Aurelia has no right to a Thaneship-“

“-Which I never asked for,” Aurelia interjected. “Your uncle was hoping to forestall a choice by having the Dragonborn as a deterrent. My oaths are to Dibella, Lydia, and so far the Stormcloaks are the only ones cooperating with me to stop Alduin. The Penitus Oculatus sent someone after me, probably to kidnap and take me back to Solitude for conscription.”

“If you’re not willing to respect your Thane’s choices, you’re welcome to leave and return to Morthal,” Galmar suggested.

Lydia swore at him vociferously, then stalked off to the tent she’d been assigned.

Aurelia ate the rest of her meal in silence before excusing herself. Tomorrow was going to be a difficult day.

It was. Even with help, the necromancers and draugr were numerous, and by the time Aurelia got to the Word Wall in the tomb’s largest chamber she was out of magicka. So after she’d absorbed the Word ‘Feim’, which allowed her to become momentarily intangible, she accepted a piece of rabbit roasted on one of the fire traps by a Stormcloak and rested.

“You’re handling yourself well,” Galmar said as he offered her a skin of mead. Lydia had chosen to remain apart and Marcurio was discussing Destruction magic with the camp’s hedge mage.

“I’m lurching from disaster to disaster,” Aurelia admitted after a mouthful of mead. “Can’t anyone fix their own problems in Skyrim?”

“A lot of things have been neglected, even before the war,” Galmar sighed. “But you see something wrong and you just can’t turn away when you’ve the power to fix it, can you?”

“No,” she said softly.

“Now you know why me and Ulfric and even your mother fight.”


	20. An Unexpected Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence, fantastic racism, misogyny, slut-shaming and mentions of religious conflict, genocide and war crimes. I like Balgruuf as a character, but he’s a very proud and stubborn man, and Aurelia did sneak out on him…

Whiterun was soft and fat and prosperous, all the things that Windhelm wasn’t. Egil was honest enough to admit that while his parents were mighty leaders of a rebellion, as rulers they were… not so good. The crowd parted before him and his hearth-man Leif the Lonely, mutterings springing up in their wake. They’d come in the formal bear-embossed variant of the totemic armour once used by the Shieldmaidens with snowy bearskins hanging from their shoulders. Time and more than time Balgruuf took a side.

One of the Companions, the behemothic Farkas, joined them with a whip-lean red-haired Dunmer who had to be Ambarys’ cousin who went to Jorrvaskr just past the dead Gildergreen. “You here to make trouble?” rumbled the soft-voiced warrior, his quicksilver-grey eyes narrowed.

“We’re delivering Balgruuf something,” Egil said honestly. “Are the Companions interfering?”

“Nope. Honestly wanted to ask how Aurelia’s doing. Being Dragonborn would be hard for her.” Farkas smiled slightly. “Heard some stories you helped her kill a dragon.”

“I didn’t realise you were acquainted with the Dragonborn,” Egil observed coolly.

“She’s a priestess of Dibella and he’s a handsome, politically not-awkward man,” Leif said dryly.

Egil flushed as the Dunmer snickered. His sister was a grown woman and free to make her own choices. It was going to be awkward to run into the odd lover of hers though.

“She’s well, the last we heard. Was heading down to the Rift after training with the Greybeards to go to Hjaalmarch,” Leif told the Companion as Egil recovered his composure.

“Good. I mean, she can travel with a Companion anywhere she wants if we’re going that direction for nothing, but…” Farkas shrugged his greatsword slightly to make it rest easier across his back. “Lydia, her huscarl, came back today full of thunder and _without_ her Thane after she’d been collected to go somewhere.”

Egil exchanged glances with Leif. “You better come with us.”

“Agreed,” the Dunmer said grimly. “There’s someone out there putting politics ahead of prophecy… and it doesn’t bode well for anyone. My cousin warned me and Irileth.”

“I just wanna find out what happened to Aurelia,” Farkas said simply. “Let’s go.”

“Can we bring Njada?” Egil asked hopefully.

“No. She’s on her Proving.” Farkas actually smirked. “Torbjorn Shatter-Shield’s been mistreatin’ his workers, Argonian and Dunmer. Guess who gets to teach him some manners?”

“You’re making the Stone-Fist’s daughter beat up one of Ulfric’s greatest supporters?” Leif asked disbelievingly.

“She needs to understand that honour doesn’t just belong to Nords,” Farkas answered. “As a Companion, she must treat all races with a Nord’s honour.”

“I only wish I could be there to see it,” the Dunmer said cheerfully.

Egil supposed that after Rolff’s abuse of his people, the mer was entitled to enjoy a bit of petty gloating.

“Whereas _you_ get to act as a champion for a Nord who can’t fight for themselves,” Farkas continued, slapping the Dunmer’s shoulder with a grin. “I bet Njada’s wishing she could see _that_ , Athis.”

Athis muttered curse words as they climbed the stairs to Dragonsreach. Honestly, Egil could understand. The Companions’ Provings seemed to be counterproductive to proving someone’s honour, he thought.

Balgruuf was enthroned as they entered, Irileth standing protectively by his side as the three Thanes of Whiterun present – Olfrid Battle-Born, Vignar Grey-Mane and Rorik of Rorikstead – stood below the dais on one side and Gerdur, hetwoman of Riverwood, on the other. From the looks of it, the entire court was gathered, including a visibly livid Lydia. Egil would have _words_ with a huscarl who abandoned her Thane.

“Damn you to Oblivion,” Balgruuf spat as they neared. “Do you know what you’ve done to me?”

“Made you grow a spine and make a choice,” Gerdur said smugly, folding her arms.

“You accept my father’s axe then?” Egil asked, producing said weapon from underneath his cloak and presenting it.

“What choice do I have if I would remain Jarl?” Balgruuf countered bitterly. “The Dragonborn, your sister, took herself to Windhelm as soon as possible.”

He rose to his feet and took the axe. “I may accept your father’s axe but tell the Dragonborn she is no Thane of mine, for she deceived me, I should have expected it from a Dibellan whore, honestly.”

Egil’s hand wasn’t the only one that went to a weapon in response to Balgruuf’s words. Leif was as ready to defend Aurelia’s honour and Farkas didn’t seem to be impressed either.

“You forced an unwanted title on a priestess sworn to accept no such things because you were hoping you could remain neutral in this war.” Remarkably, it was Athis who spoke, his voice grim. “Aurelia Ink-Fingers has shown nothing _but_ honour in Jorrvaskr’s eyes. I can understand how you could see her presence in Windhelm and the acceptance of Stormcloak assistance as problematic. But to call the Dragonborn a liar and a whore, when she is neither and not here to defend herself, is an act unworthy of a Jarl’s honour.”

Irileth’s eyebrows shot up. “You would champion the Dragonborn?”

“I would stand for someone not here to defend herself. Even against the Nerevarine herself.”

“The act of a Nord,” Leif said approvingly.

Balgruuf’s hand tightened around Ulfric’s axe. “You call me dishonourable?”

“If it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck…” Athis drawled.

Egil decided that maybe Bjarni was right about the Dunmer having their own kind of honour.

“So, the Companions throw aside their vaunted neutrality for sake of a Dibellan,” Balgruuf snarled.

“Say no more,” Egil warned softly.

“To Oblivion with you all! I would rather go into exile than live in a Skyrim ruled by your fool parents!” Balgruuf threw down the axe and then his circlet. “When Skyrim is beggared and bleeding, you will beg for the Legions to return and then I will be with them. This isn’t over!”

He turned to Irileth. “Prepare those of my household who wish to follow me for travel.”

“Let him and his go freely… with nothing more than what can be readily carried on their backs,” Egil said loudly as the crowd gasped. “We will escort him to whichever border he prefers. Cyrodiil might suit his temperament.”

Irileth cast a dark dour glance on Athis. “I salute your honour, for what it’s worth. Do not cross my path again, Companion, for this will be remembered for all the long years of my life.”

“I did as you did, Nerevarine,” Athis said simply. “Stood fast in the face of lies and deceit.”

“That is why I don’t kill you this day.” And she was gone.

In the end, it was Athis and Farkas who escorted Balgruuf and his household to the Cyrodiil border. Egil was left sitting on his arse in the Great Hall, still gobsmacked at how everything was resolved, with the remaining Thanes arguing over who should be the new Jarl. Despite Egil’s familial connections to the Grey-Manes, Vignar was damn near as old as Jorrvaskr with no heirs that would make for good Jarls. Olfrid was a staunch Imperial loyalist and Rorik just wanted to farm in peace.

“Gerdur!” he finally snapped. “The new Jarl is Gerdur, whose mother was the first martyr of Talos in Whiterun and her brother Ralof stood as one of my father’s first hearth-men.”

It was Rorik who agreed first with a nod. “Closest familial connection to Balgruuf as well,” the old Thane approved. “It relieves me to know that you will follow your parents as a ruler, Egil. You’ve a lot more sense than either of them.”

After this fiasco, Egil wasn’t so sure about that. His father was going to hit the roof with his mother just behind for letting Balgruuf go like that. But what else could he have done?


	21. A Dragonborn's Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note” Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

Aurelia returned to a Stormcloak-ruled Whiterun.

“Dragonborn!” Gerdur, the hetwoman of Riverwood and Ralof’s big sister, stepped down from the dais where the Stallion Throne sat with a big smile on her face and the Jarl’s circlet upon her head. “How goes the fight against Alduin?”

“It’s… going,” Aurelia admitted. “I’m going back to High Hrothgar for more teaching from the Greybeards.”

“Egil said something of that sort,” Gerdur said as she nodded to the stairs leading to Balgruuf’s war room. “Can you and your friend spare a minute?”

“I’m heading back to the Rift,” Marcurio said hastily. “I don’t mind dealing with bandits or necromancers or even draugr, but I’m drawing a line at dragons.”

“It was only the one,” Aurelia said quietly. “But… as you wish. I envy you the luxury.”

Marcurio inclined his head and left Jorrvaskr rather hastily.

“Cyrod coward,” Gerdur observed contemptuously.

“Dragons are on a different level to bandits and necromancers,” Aurelia pointed out as they went upstairs. “He did his work honestly for the pay he received. I… didn’t tell him I was the Dragonborn at first.”

“You sound almost ashamed of it.”

“Not ashamed, Gerdur. It’s a terrible burden, particularly since I’m no great mage or warrior.” Aurelia sighed and gave the other woman a frank glance. “What in Oblivion happened while I was gone?”

Gerdur told her and Aurelia allowed herself a curse. “I knew it would be bad when Lydia left me after Ustengrav, but…”

“Balgruuf tried to make you into a political tool and when it backfired, he decided to act like his brat children and go somewhere else to sulk,” Gerdur answered bluntly. “It was resolved without a fight, which should please you as a priestess.”

“Perhaps,” Aurelia said dubiously. “You said you wanted to speak to me?”

“I did.” Gerdur led her out on to the Great Porch and pointed to the roof. “That’s the old dragon trap which Olaf used to catch the dragon Numinex. I was going to ask if you wanted it restored… just in case.”

“I did say something to Balgruuf,” Aurelia said in relief. “But please do so. After High Hrothgar, I need to go to the Reach and when I return, Dibella willing I’ll have the tools to defeat Alduin.”

“You’re going to consult the Sibyl of Dibella at the Temple in Markarth?” Gerdur asked curiously.

“Among other things. There’s an ancient Akaviri Temple that was erected by the Dragonguard, the precursors to the Blades. My ultimate paternal ancestor Kin-Tatsuo’s great-great-grandson oversaw its construction, I’ve been told, and every bit of dragonlore the Akaviri knew is within its walls.” Aurelia gazed up at High Hrothgar. “The Greybeards don’t know everything and they’re quite hostile to the Blades… and their descendants.”

“Why?” Gerdur sounded confused.

“Well, near as I can understand it, Talos was meant to be the unifier of _humanity_ as a personification of Shor, but being the greedy arsehole of a dragon soul that he was, he decided to conquer the whole damn continent and gave rise to the Thalmor – who used to be the Altmer’s version of the Stormcloaks, from what I’ve heard.” Aurelia nodded in the monastery’s direction. “The Greybeards felt that the Dragonguard, who became the Blades, corrupted Talos by feeding his desire for conquest and domination.”

“I see,” Gerdur said dubiously.

“Personally, I think they corrupted each other. The Dragonguard had been ronin – masterless – for centuries with no Dragonborn to protect and guide, so when one crossed the border to Cyrodiil, they thought all their New Life Festivals had come at once. Give one semi-divine being with an urge to conquer and dominate a group of blindly obedient minions who are skilled assassins, saboteurs and spies, you’ve got a perfect storm of co-dependent imperialistic fuckups that will lead to inevitable dissolution and war down the line.”

Gerdur leaned against a pillar, folding her arms. “So you agree with the Greybeards?”

“Oh no, they’re the isolationist idiots who think they’re holier-than-thou because they live on top of a mountain and do fuck-all in a time of crisis,” Aurelia assured her wryly. “Maybe it’s the Dibellan in me, but I got a sense of contempt from their leader because I wasn’t some ascetic cleric who meditated on a mountaintop.”

The new Jarl laughed shortly. “It goes to show they know nothing about Dibellans.”

“Exactly.” Aurelia sighed. “I’m sorry if I was insulting your faith, Gerdur. I know you and your family are devout Talosites.”

“My mother was the first to die for her faith in Whiterun. I think that was partly why Egil gave me the Stallion Throne.” Gerdur sighed. “Talos is a hard god. Egil told me He really didn’t learn mercy until Stendarr taught Him it, so maybe you – someone else with a dragon’s soul – know Him better than the rest of us.”

“Maybe. But I had a lot of time in the House of Dibella to consider history and what led to Cloud Ruler’s fall.” Aurelia glanced up at High Hrothgar one last time. “I need to get to Riverwood before dark. Delphine has something I need to pick up.”

Gerdur nodded. “Do you need an escort?”

“Probably not. But thanks for the offer… and listening.”

…

“You could have saved yourself the trip to Morthal if you’d just come back to Riverwood after the feast,” Delphine reminded the Dragonborn as she handed over the horn. “I’ve had this for years.”

“And desecrated a holy site in doing so,” Aurelia said acidly.

“What’s so sacred about a bunch of dead Greybeards?”

“Each and every one of them is a priest of Kynareth in addition to being a Tongue,” the Dibellan said, tucking the horn inside her robes. “I know you’ve never respected anything but really, digging around in the old Greybeard tombs?”

“I give them the exact respect they’ve given the Blades,” Delphine told her.

“Honestly, you’re both fucking idiots,” Aurelia said wearily. “Now pack your shit and come with me. We’re going to the Pale.”

“I thought you were going to High Hrothgar?” Delphine unfolded her arms. “Besides, I need to get some intelligence from the Thalmor embassy-“

“That was arranged when I was in Riften,” Aurelia interrupted. “You’re going to the Pale because I ordered it. Or are you spitting on the oaths of a Blade as well? My father’s a Dark Brother and he damn well kept them better than you are.”

Delphine stared in horror as her worst nightmare about the Dragonborn became realised. Arrogant, certain in her own course, and absolutely disinterested in accepting guidance from an older, wiser mentor.

“What am I doing in the Pale?” she finally asked.

Aurelia smiled. “Catching up with Esbern.”


	22. Heljarchen Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

“Why are you bothering to go to High Hrothgar? Alduin’s Wall at Sky Haven Temple likely has all the answers we need.”

Rustem popped the cork from his bottle of ale as Aurelia closed her eyes, lips moving silently in a prayer to Dibella for patience. Heljarchen Hall was just a hop, skip and jump away from Whiterun so it hadn’t taken her long to bring Delphine – who was obviously fuming – here.

“Because while the Akaviri knew more about killing dragons, the Greybeards know more about Shouts,” he observed after a mouthful of ale. “I’ve seen a few Word Walls and there’s probably a lot of Shouts Aurelia doesn’t know.”

“Arngeir told me there’s twenty or so,” Aurelia confirmed. “And before anyone brings it up, I’m not having Paarthurnax killed. If he can live on the top of a mountain for five thousand years and not chow down on random humans when there’s no Dragonborn around, I think he’s pretty safe.”

Delphine slammed her hand on the table in anger. “Oaths go both ways, dammit! Paarthurnax is a monster and deserves to die!”

“Taking that tack, you and Esbern deserve to die for burning that tree in Falinesti and murdering hundreds of Bosmer civilians,” Aurelia retorted in a soft, deadly voice.

“That was war!” Delphine insisted.

“And in the days before the Three Tongues, every dragon served Alduin on pain of death and dissolution,” Aurelia pointed out in that soft tone. “Do you know that whenever I absorb a dragon’s soul, I can taste its despair as its _very consciousness_ unravels? To consider that could be _my_ fate if I fail…”

Esbern blanched. “Cal… Aurelia, I never considered that.”

“So don’t fail,” Delphine said with a shrug. “I think you’re wasting time with a visit to High Hrothgar myself, but you’ve already shown you’re not interested in my advice.”

“When you give me some advice that doesn’t involve serving your interests, picking a fight with the Thalmor we can’t win or taking political power that is forbidden to me as a priestess, I’ll take an interest in it,” Aurelia retorted with some asperity. “I’m not your Second Coming of Talos, Delphine.”

The Breton pushed herself away from the table angrily. “You have a duty to the world and I think you’re trying to shirk it. Come talk to me when you give a damn about your own legacy.”

She stalked out, pushing past Nazir and a Dunmer as they entered, and soon they heard the front door slam.

“I hope that woman isn’t a new recruit,” the younger Redguard observed as he went to the hearth to get himself a bowl of soup from the kettle always hanging there. “Her attitude’s deplorable.”

“She’s one of the last Blades,” Aurelia said contritely. “I thought she should be here for Esbern to keep an eye on her.”

“My ex-lover,” Rustem elaborated.

“Could she be trouble?” the Dunmer asked.

“Not to us, I hope,” Rustem said with a sigh. “So I’m guessing you’re Jenassa.”

“I am.” She bowed slightly. “Blade and shadow, silence and death. These are my arts. For a modest fee, I’ll make great art for you.”

“Sounds like you’re in the right place,” Aurelia noted.

“I am a little surprised to find you here, Dragonborn. Have you come to put a contract out on Alduin?”

“I don’t have that kind of coin,” Aurelia said ruefully. “Depending on the day, I can’t even afford a freelancer like yourself.”

She rose to her feet. “Thank you for the help, but I need to return to Whiterun. It’s a long way to Ivarstead, even in the carriage.”

“You’re free to visit anytime,” Rustem told her warmly. “Aurelia, I’m proud of you for standing your ground.”

“…As am I,” Esbern said softly. “You _are_ the Dragonborn and you wear the responsibility well.”

Aurelia embraced the old man who was probably a grandfather figure to her and then Rustem. He kissed her on the forehead and blinked back tears. Whatever his daughter was, she was the best of them all.

Then she was gone.

“She’s my daughter,” Rustem told Jenassa. “I didn’t see her for over twenty years until I ran into her in Riften.”

“Ah.” Jenassa took a seat at the table. “And the old man?”

“Esbern, the last Blades loremaster,” was his response. “He’s here for protection and… as a kind of retirement, I suppose.”

“As Aurelia pointed out, the Blades have committed many terrible acts, so it would be hypocritical of me to judge those who murder for money,” Esbern admitted with a sigh.

“A practical man,” Jenassa said approvingly.

“Speaking of practical people, Veezara sent me word from Falkreath,” Nazir said after a mouthful of stew. “Astrid and Arnbjorn got a job to try and kill Bjarni Ulfricsson. Emphasis on the _try_. Even drunk off his ass on sujamma after a night at the Cornerclub, he fought them off.”

Rustem allowed himself a short laugh. “Two on one and he still managed to beat their asses?”

“Apparently,” Nazir confirmed with a smirk.

“You’re not telling the entire story,” Jenassa said, picking up an apple from the fruit bowl and peeling it with an iron dagger. “The assailants were wielding elven weapons and he was attacked in the Grey Quarter.”

“Everyone knows that Astrid and Arnbjorn aren’t smart enough to frame someone convincingly,” Rustem pointed out.

“That isn’t the point.” Nazir had lost his amusement. “The fact is that our brethren in Falkreath tried to murder the son of a Jarl in such a way as would lead to the Dunmer being blamed. Bjarni, I should mention, is known as a champion of the non-Nords in Windhelm.”

“Did Veezara tell you who made the contract?” Rustem asked, lowering his bottle of ale.

“No.”

“Satakal damn it, I have no quarrel with the Stormcloaks in general.” Rustem took a swig of ale. “We don’t need this with the Motierre job.”

“Indeed,” Nazir agreed. “So what are we going to do about it?”

Rustem’s expression was grim. “Remind them of the Five Tenets.”


	23. The Shape of Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and corpse desecration.

Coming home to find out Njada Stonearm was in the Bloodworks for assaulting Torbjorn Shatter-Shield was a surprise for Egil.

“I have word from a member of the Circle himself that it was her Proving,” Egil informed his parents as they met in the war room. “You must apply – or demonstrate – true Nord honour to everyone, no matter their race or rank. We know Torbjorn’s been grossly underpaying his employees.”

“The Companions dare to accuse Stormcloaks of dishonour?” Sigdrifa demanded in disbelief.

“However necessary Torygg’s death was, we all know there was little honour in cutting down a boy holding a butter-knife,” Egil responded bluntly. “The Companions of Jorrvaskr are the arbiters of Skyrim’s honour. That is their function, and I understood what the Proving was when I saw Athis Rendar willing to stand as champion for my sister after Balgruuf called her a lying whore. _His_ Proving was to stand up for a Nord who couldn’t defend themselves.”

Sigdrifa’s expression darkened but when she opened her mouth to speak, Ulfric waved her silent. “If someone pays the wergild owed to Torbjorn, she will be released.”

The Jarl of Windhelm turned to look into the Great Hall. “Events in Whiterun didn’t proceed as I had expected. I had intended the Grey-Manes to follow in Balgruuf’s footsteps if he refused my axe.”

“Vignar’s older than Dengeir, Thorald is probably dead, Avulstein has the spine of a wet reed when it comes to making decisions and Olfina is too tactless to rule a city of many cultures,” Egil answered calmly. “Gerdur is a shrewd businesswoman, leader and even diplomat whose familial and religious connections served us better than anyone else would have.”

“I didn’t say I was displeased. You thought better on your feet than I expected you to.” Ulfric turned back to him. “I was surprised to see the Companions intervene though.”

“Aurelia impressed them enough to have one standing for her honour when she wasn’t around to defend herself,” Egil pointed out. “It wasn’t politics – it was concern and a point of honour. I believe Farkas is fond of her after their time together.”

“That woman is like the sea,” Yrsarald remarked from his place in the corner. “You can try to punch it all you want, but it will yield to your fist and then overwhelm you in the next tide.”

“She’s conscientious, I’ll give her that,” Sigdrifa conceded grudgingly.

“Any word about the attack on Bjarni?” Egil asked, shrugging off his bearskin cloak.

“None. The two mercenaries-“

“Dark Brothers,” Egil corrected softly. “One of whom I think was your friend Astrid.”

“She wouldn’t dare!” Sigdrifa gasped.

“She’s an _assassin_. I’m sure she’ll be very apologetic next time you see her and offer a murder on the house or something, but if someone put a contract out on Bjarni, she’d shrug and try to complete it.”

Ulfric’s eyebrows rose. “You’re sure it wasn’t arranged by Rustem?”

“One of Bjarni’s Dunmer friends told me that Rustem doesn’t believe in collateral damage. Attacking his daughter’s half-brother would come under that,” Egil said carefully. “It matches with what we know of him. The general belief is that it was the Imperials, trying to sow dissension by killing the one Stormcloak who’s respected by the Dunmer and Argonians and making it look like it was an assassination by either the Thalmor or the Morag Tong by use of elven weapons.”

“You’d believe an Aurelii over a former Shieldmaiden?” Sigdrifa asked.

“Personally, I don’t like either of them. Astrid is a kinslayer and Rustem an adulterer. Up to me, I’d purge the lot of them,” Egil told her. “But I’m a realist. Unless we were to hunt down the Night Mother and burn every Sanctuary in Tamriel, the Dark Brotherhood will always return. So I’ll settle for holding the word of the one known to avoid collateral damage above the one who once killed an entire family to make sure of her target.”

Ulfric grunted. “We will find out who did it and wring the truth from their bodies. I have another task for you. It’s high time we did something about the Butcher.”

“Can we really spare the resources?” Sigdrifa asked quietly. “We need to secure the Reach.”

“Egil’s a skilled investigator – and if Wuunferth is right and necromancy might be involved, his talent at Restoration will be useful,” Ulfric told her as he turned and picked up a pouch of money. “He can release Njada and she can serve as bait.”

“Release her and her avenging of Friga will be wergild to the Shatter-Shields,” Egil suggested softly.

Ulfric grunted again. “Fine. I want the Butcher’s head on a spike in three days.”

“It will be done,” Egil promised.

…

“You know, Torbjorn really is a prick,” Njada told Egil as they left the Palace of the Kings. “He expects twice the work for a tenth of the pay from the Argonians. No wonder Suvaris jumped at the chance to serve Bjarni. Even the Dunmer were saying he treated the Argonians poorly and those two races don’t even like each other.”

“I understand what the Proving is, sort of,” Egil told her, handing her a shield and sword. “Balgruuf insulted Aurelia and Athis stood for her because she wasn’t around to defend herself.”

“No wonder you sent him packing. The Dragonborn is neither a liar nor a whore.” Personally, Njada was impressed Athis had grasped the meaning of his Proving. Maybe Vilkas was right and an elf could have the heart of a Nord.

“Before you return to Whiterun, we need to stop the Butcher,” Egil said once they got to the Stone Quarter. “The last murder was last night – Susanna the Wicked, from the Candlehearth Hall, was murdered in the graveyard.”

“That’s three Nords, two of rank,” Njada observed. “What’s taken Yrsarald so long to get around to it?”

“To hear my mother, we didn’t have the resources,” Egil replied softly. “Father’s decided that avenging Friga is to be your wergild to the Shatter-Shields.”

Njada stopped in her tracks. “Torbjorn brought it on himself!”

“But we both know it was the Dunmer and/or the Argonians who paid for the Companions to kick his arse,” Egil pointed out. “You know our parents. You know that they don’t consider both races to be equal to Nords.”

“Before I went to Jorrvaskr, I would have agreed with them,” Njada admitted ashamedly. “But now…”

“Preaching to the congregation,” was all Egil said. “Come, let us investigate this Butcher.”

For someone who’d been terrorising the city for over a year, narrowing the candidates down took only a few hours. Egil, as son of the Jarl, was able to get access to the Hall of the Dead and examine Susanna’s body while Njada was able to employ the tracking techniques taught by Aela to follow the blood trail to Hjerim. Inside was… horrific.

“He’s trying to make a lich,” Egil said grimly as he rustled around a stack of Viola Giordano’s warnings and pulled out an eight-sided pendant of ebony and jade with a skull on it.

“Nice piece of jewellery,” Njada said dryly.

“It’s the Necromancer’s Amulet. Made by Mannimarco himself,” Egil said flatly.

Njada shuddered. She’d heard about the King of Worms. “So what now?”

“Jorleif gives us access to the archives. There’s two journals here. We just need to match the handwriting.”

Calixto Corrium didn’t respond very well to Njada kicking in his door but a quick shield-bash to the face sorted out the problem of resistance. She hog-tied him with some rope as Egil puttered around the House of Curiosities, eventually finding a third journal that matched the two found in Hjerim. What he read made the warrior-priest blanch.

“It’s the blood-eagle for him,” Egil said in a cold deadly voice. “Maybe with a soul trap.”

“I thought Vigilants frowned upon the trapping of black souls,” Njada reminded him.

“Aye… but he soul-trapped Friga, Fjotli, Susanna, an Argonian dockworker and a Khajiit girl who’d wandered too far from the caravans in the hopes of selling some curiosity to him.” Egil’s smile made him look almost like Sigdrifa at her worst. “I can’t free them, but I can give them the chance to avenge themselves.”

“We can’t tell the Shatter-Shields or the Cruel-Seas,” Njada said softly.

“I know.”

“Corrium? I knew he was weird but…” Jorleif said in shock as the evidence was presented to him.

“If someone had spent a few bloody hours investigating everything, we could have stopped him a long time ago!” Njada snapped.

“Sigdrifa said we didn’t have the manpower,” Jorleif said weakly.

“My mother’s so monomaniacal at times that if a star was crashing down upon Nirn, she’d try to find a way to make sure most of the dying was done by the Legion,” Egil said disgustedly.

Jorleif’s grimace said it all.

Calixto wasn’t publicly executed in the end because, halfway through the questioning, Sigdrifa cut him down like the dog he was. Njada felt vaguely cheated. The people of Windhelm deserved to see justice done.

Next morning, she joined Egil out on the pier as he assured the Argonians that Kisses-Moonlight had been avenged. Shahvee, a worshipper of Zenithar, begged them to find her stolen amulet from the same bandits at Traitor’s Post Brunwulf Free-Winter complained about last Holdmoot. Wanting to work off some temper and have an excuse to spend more time with Egil, Njada volunteered them.

It was nightfall by the time they were done, so they decided to camp out in the bandit outpost, cooking with their supplies. It seemed they ambushed traders and travellers from Morrowind, the Khajiit caravans and the odd hunter out that way.

“So… I suppose you’ll take vows as a Shieldmaiden once you have your Skyforge Steel sword,” Egil said quietly as they toasted bread and cheese over the fire.

Njada sighed. He’d bring it up. “I know we need more Shieldmaidens and your mother pointed out I’d be a bad match for you politically-“

_“What?”_ Egil yelped. “She told me you had a calling and that’s why we couldn’t be together!”

“I was told I should serve as a Shieldmaiden because I couldn’t bring a political benefit to the Hold if I married you because my uncle’s your father’s consort,” Njada told him, feeling a slow anger build in her veins. “She was quite sympathetic about it. But now…”

“Oh, fuck off,” Egil said disgustedly, sounding like Bjarni. “There isn’t a woman among the noble families I want to marry but for you. Who would I pick? Idgrod the Younger with her very cracked family or Elisif the widow of the man my father killed? Friga Shatter-Shield, Fjotli Cruel-Sea and Lilija Snow-Shod are dead, Dagny’s exiled – thank the gods for that – and even if she wasn’t, she’s ten years my junior!”

“Lilija’s dead?” Njada interrupted.

“Imperials cut her down. They didn’t care a Battle-Maiden was sworn to heal the sick,” Egil said with a sigh.

“Damn faithless Imperials,” Njada said bitterly.

“Aye. I think it’s a miracle my sister’s turned out as stable as she is.” Egil handed her some melted cheese on toast.

Njada took it, blinking at him. “I thought Callaina was dead.”

He shook his head. “She’s the Dragonborn.”

“ _Aurelia Ink-Fingers_ is your sister?”

“Yes! Why are you so surprised?”

“That means… She thinks Sigdrifa abandoned her,” Njada said slowly as she put two and two together. It explained some of the comments between Aurelia and that Blade Delphine.

“My mother did,” Egil confirmed flatly. “My mother is capable of a great many things in the name of Talos.”

Like lie to a pair of lovers because their union was politically inconvenient.

Njada wolfed down her meal and offered her hand to Egil. “Where’s Aurelia at the moment?”

“I think she’s going to Ivarstead to return to High Hrothgar? Why?”

“Because fuck the Shieldmaidens and fuck your mother. I remember she told me that love was honest and patient. She counselled a woman in the centre of a love triangle to love herself enough to be alone if she didn’t like either suitor.” The words were tumbling from Njada’s lips. “If these are the end of days, Egil, I’d rather spend them with you than serving a god who’s honestly kind of a dick.”

Egil’s eyes became aflame with purpose. “ _Yes._ I have no Amulet of Mara… but Njada, would you stay with me until the end of time?”

“Don’t hijack my proposal!” she told him tartly. “So, want to pull a Bjarni and perform an act guaranteed to infuriate most of your family?”

“My proposal was more romantic,” he complained. “But aye. Let us go to Ivarstead and be married by the Dibellan Dragonborn.”

Njada smiled. There were no masters in Jorrvaskr… and now she understood why. Because only one could find the shape of their honour on their own, not allow someone else to do so.


	24. Attack on Jorrvaskr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, misogyny and fantastic racism.

“You missed Farkas. He and Athis are escorting Balgruuf’s household to Cyrodiil’s border.”

Aurelia accepted the flagon of mead from Vilkas as they sat by Jorrvaskr’s central firepit. “I thought Companions didn’t get involved in politics?”

“Balgruuf swore to leave Whiterun. We’re just making sure he does so.” Vilkas took a long pull from his own flagon, belching quietly afterwards. “You got lost on the way to Ivarstead, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Aurelia admitted in chagrin.

“Aela’s just won a bet but honestly, it’s easy enough to do. That’s why the Falkreath route is more popular. Once you’re in the Jeralls, there’s no other path.” Vilkas drank some more mead. “Where are you going now?”

“Back to Ivarstead. I have the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and the Greybeards have promised me more teaching.” Aurelia sipped from her own flagon. She was growing used to the sweet-sour taste of mead.

Vilkas sighed. “None of us are going there, I’m afraid.”

She nodded. “I understand. I was going to take the carriage and hope for the best.”

The Companion leaned back in his seat. “If you’re desperate, there’s Uthgerd the Unbroken. She’s a competent fighter.”

“Oh?”

Vilkas grimaced. “She was a whelp who killed another whelp, then claimed we insulted her by putting her up against a youth. We’d assigned her to try and teach the boy!”

“Is she the redhead with a chip on her shoulder?” Aurelia asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take my chances with the carriage. She’s the one who’s always trying to pick a fight, even with me.” Aurelia smiled wryly. “The first Word of Unrelenting Force is like a punch to the gut. It gets people’s attention… or lets me get away in a fight.”

Vilkas suddenly snapped his fingers. “That reminds me! We have a Word from Dustman’s Cairn. Ria found it during her Proving. Finish your mead and come with me. Kodlak’s got it in his office.”

Downstairs, the Harbinger was sitting in his office, drinking something that smelt of fish and char. In the couple weeks since she’d seen him, Kodlak’s health had taken a turn for the worse; he was pallid and visibly trembling. When she called a healing spell to her hand, the Harbinger shook his head.

“You can’t help me, Dragonborn,” he said quietly. “Unless you know the means of breaking a curse?”

“I’m no Temple exorcist,” Aurelia told him with a sigh. “But-“

“I’m a werewolf,” Kodlak interrupted bluntly. “Hircine hopes to claim his own but… I cling to the hope of Sovngarde. There is a cure, I know it.”

“Job gone wrong?” Aurelia asked tentatively.

“No. The Circle are all…” Kodlak coughed into a handkerchief. “I saw your face in a dream and I knew it for a sign that the curse could be lifted from us.”

“ _You_ call it a curse. _We_ call it a blessing,” Aela said from the door. “Why are you dragging Aurelia into this? She has to contend with Alduin, not an old man who’s enjoyed the feast but now fears to pay the piper – and intends on dragging the rest of us along with him.”

“Aela,” Skjor said softly next to her, “That’s harsh.”

Aurelia held up her hand to forestall the brewing argument. “Tell me how this happened. I’m a priestess, trained in counselling. I may not be able to cure the lycanthropy, but maybe I can still help.”

Over the course of the next hour, she learned of Terrfyg, the Harbinger who’d made a deal with a coven of Glenmoril Witches – notorious for their allegiance to Hircine – to hunt for the Daedric Prince in return for heightened prowess. It was confined to the Circle, to heighten the sense of loyalty and belonging Companions felt for each other. Aela and Skjor embraced it; Vilkas and Kodlak sought a cure, dragging Farkas along with them. Aurelia was slightly nettled about the way they treated the big gentle Companion like he was a pet dog.

“This will stay under the seal of the confessional,” she promised quietly. “I’m not a Vigilant, after all.”

“Thank you,” Aela answered, relieved. “We’ve done a lot of good with the beast blood. Hircine gave us a fair bargain and we should pay it in the end.”

“You and Skjor are entitled to feel that way, just as Kodlak and Vilkas are allowed to repent of their actions and seek a cure,” Aurelia told her. “There are no masters in Jorrvaskr, as I understand it.”

“Yet Kodlak’s trying to make the choice for us all,” Skjor growled. “I don’t begrudge the old man Sovngarde if that’s what he wants. I _do_ begrudge him trying to drag us all there with him.”

“I’m trying to save your souls!” Kodlak protested.

“You can lead a soul to salvation but you can’t make them take it,” Aurelia chided. “Or damnation, for that matter.”

“Shame you’re a priestess,” drawled Aela. “You’d have made a good Harbinger.”

“Farkas desires to be free of the beast blood too,” Vilkas growled.

“Does he, or did you make that call for him?” Aurelia asked the warrior tartly. “Farkas is no academic, but he’s not an idiot either! Give your brother some credit. He can make his own decisions.”

“Can we keep her?” Skjor asked Aela. “Make her Jorrvaskr’s chaplain or something.”

Despite herself, Aurelia smiled. “You’re not off the hook, Skjor. Forcing the beast blood on members of the Circle is a no-no. Let them be made aware of the choice – and consequences – before they take it.”

“She’s right,” Aela said with a flush.

Skjor inclined his head. “That’s… a good point. I meant what I said. When I’m Harbinger, you’re willing to join us as a chaplain or something.”

“Thank you,” Aurelia said quietly. “We’ll see how things go.”

Kodlak cleared his throat. “That Word we found.”

It was a Word for ‘fire’. “Yol,” Aurelia breathed.

“Soon, you won’t need a bodyguard,” Skjor said amusedly, “You’ll be able to match a dragon Shout for Shout-“

Upstairs, there was the sound of splintering wood. “Find and kill the dogs!” snapped someone.

Kodlak’s expression became deadly calm. “Skjor, get the Dragonborn out of here.”

“The Silver fucking Hand!” spat Aela.

“Werewolf hunters. They won’t respect you as priestess or Dragonborn,” Vilkas told Aurelia. “Hide. We will protect you.”

It was too late. They’d murdered Tilma and were already downstairs. “Come out and we’ll slay you as the dogs you are!” taunted one, wearing armour made from werewolf pelts, with a sneer.

“Let the Dragonborn through!” snapped Skjor. “You have no quarrel with her.”

“Well, well, entertaining the dogs?” sneered the leader. “I should have expected it from a Dibellan whore.”

Aurelia rose to her feet, stepped past Skjor, and regarded the five Silver Hands – who looked more like bandits, to be honest – grimly. “Leave. Or face the consequences of your actions.”

The thugs laughed.

“I’m about to use Unrelenting Force on them,” she said softly to the Companions. “They’ll be down for a half-minute or so.”

“Well, Dragon-Whore, what are you going to do to me?” the leader asked lewdly.

_“FUS RO!”_

The Shout knocked all five down and before they could rise, Skjor and Aela were among them as werewolves, slashing and tearing with claws sharper than steel. Vilkas was on their heels with his greatsword. Soon, all five were dead.

“Stay down here,” he ordered Kodlak and Aurelia. “We will make sure there are no more.”

“No. I will come with you,” Kodlak said clearly.

Aurelia followed them upstairs and in the mead-hall, Torvar and Ria were fighting off more Silver Hands. “FUS RO!” Aurelia yelled again, breaking the circle surrounding them.

“For glory! For Sovngarde!” Kodlak roared as he surged forth, a warrior once more, and fell upon them.

What followed was butchery and when it was over, Kodlak lay among the slain.

“Bastards!” Torvar spat on a corpse.

Ria was ashen. “They said the Circle were werewolves.”

“It’s true,” Skjor admitted. “Some of us. You’re given a choice.”

“A choice to damn myself?” Ria asked in disbelief. “No wonder Skyrim’s fallen to ruin and rebellion if the arbiters of its honour are Daedric cultists who lie to others.”

“Ria. You have the right to be angry, but we need to bury the dead,” Skjor said firmly. “We can discuss this afterwards.”

“No.” Ria’s tone was scathing. “I need to return to Solitude. The Legion needs to know-“

“Have _you_ told them who you are?” Aurelia interrupted hoarsely.

The Imperial Heir regarded her with a flat glare. “Stay out of this, Aurelia. I’m deciding whether or not to consider you a traitor for working with the Stormcloaks.”

“She’s fought for us. So far as I’m concerned, she’s a Companion!” snapped Vilkas.

“What do you mean, Aurelia?” Skjor asked quietly.

“Ria is Akaviria Mara Nona Medea, the Imperial Heir,” Aurelia told him. “I told her she should tell you the last time I was here but… I guess she didn’t.”

“You just disobeyed a direct order,” Ria said grimly. “When you defeat Alduin, I strongly suggest you go to Hammerfell, because when Skyrim is reunited by the Empire-“

“It. Won’t. Happen.” Aurelia’s voice was strong and sure. “The gods are done with an Empire that’s based on cruelty and lies. Go home, Ria, and sort your own house out.”

“You don’t give the orders around here, _Dragonborn_.”

“No, I’m giving you a strongly worded suggestion. I wouldn’t say anything to the Elder Council about werewolves either. Remember, you’ve been consorting with them for the past year or so, and we both know Motierre would jump on the chance to denounce you as a Daedric cultist and become Emperor himself.”

Her face went paler. “My cousin and brother’s deaths… Gods. That traitorous _bastard_ …”

Aurelia turned towards the bodies. Kodlak and Tilma would need to be prepared for a funeral, Gerdur alerted… “Go home, Ria. The Empire needs you there, not here.”

“My grandfather was right. The Aurelii have truly broken the Empire.” Ria sheathed her sword. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Aurelia. You’ve managed to outdo your grandfather’s treason.”

She left and Aurelia sighed. “I can’t return home, can I?”

Skjor squeezed her shoulder. “You have a home in Jorrvaskr. Now come, let us prepare Kodlak and Tilma for burning. The Silver Hand will rue the day they were born.”


	25. Glory to the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, misogyny and fantastic racism. Playing around with the timeline of the Companions’ questline for story purposes.

“I want vengeance!”

Vilkas’ cry rang out across Jorrvaskr as the bodies of Tilma and Kodlak were prepared for a burning on the Skyforge. Danica Pure-Spring, the High Priestess of Kynareth in Skyrim, and the Dragonborn were talking quietly about which woods and oils were appropriate and who should conduct the ceremony. Eorlund approached the clergy and cleared his throat.

“It is my duty as the senior-most member of the Companions to do the eulogy,” he reminded them. “Danica, put snowberries and pine wood on the fire. Dragonborn-“

“Call me Aurelia,” the brunette interrupted with a sigh. “I don’t feel particularly mighty or heroic today.”

“Don’t let that lying Cyrod bitch get to you,” Eorlund chided gently. “You stood your ground and defended Jorrvaskr. I understand why the gods chose you as Dragonborn.”

“You’d be the first,” Aurelia noted with some irony. “But what did you want me to do?”

“Use your fire Shout to kindle the Skyforge,” the smith told her. “Kodlak is the first Harbinger in several generations to be burned upon it. His soul will revitalise it… and the power of the Thu’um could only help.”

She inclined her head. “I will.”

“Thank you.”

The next few hours were spent preparing the pyre and laying out the bodies. Eorlund placed their weapons in their hands and – much to his surprise – the Dragonborn bound the wrists together. “May you reach Hea- the Hall of Valour before Alduin knows you’re dead,” she murmured, touching their foreheads, lips and hearts. “Your blades are sheathed, your watch is done. Abide until the end of days.”

At Eorlund’s glance, she flushed crimson under the olive-bronze of her cheeks. “It’s an old Blades funeral blessing. Alduin… He feasts on the souls of heroes in Sovngarde. The Blades who died under oath await the end of days in Heaven’s Reach Temple. But Nords go to the Hall of Valour, right?”

“Aye,” Eorlund said as softly as she’d spoken. “It’s true then about the World-Eater?”

Aurelia nodded grimly. “I’m going as fast as I can. Hopefully after I find Alduin’s Wall in the Reach…”

Eorlund reached out to give her shoulder a squeeze. “I know. I’ll keep this to myself. If the Stormcloaks knew…”

“My mother would continue the fight,” she said with a grimace. “Sigdrifa Stormsword isn’t a sentimentalist.”

“She’s a stone-cold bitch,” Eorlund observed bluntly. “Ulfric could have done a lot better. Uh…”

Aurelia’s smile was thin. “I know what you mean. Let’s complete the pyre so everyone can mourn before the next fight.”

Once everyone had gathered, Eorlund stepped forward. “Who will start?”

“I will,” Aela said clearly. She raised her voice. “Before the ancient flame... We grieve.”

“We grieve,” everyone said in unison.

“At this loss, we weep,” Eorlund said next.

“We weep.”

“For the fallen, we shout!” Vilkas yelled proudly.

“We shout!”

“And for ourselves, we take our leave,” Farkas said sadly.

“We take our leave.”

“YOL!” The Dragonborn’s voice was soft thunder as the pyre caught fire and in that tone was the mourning of the gods themselves.

“His spirit is departed. Members of the Circle, let us withdraw to the Underforge, to grieve our last together,” Aela announced.

“Dragonborn, please stay,” Eorlund requested. “I have need of you.”

Once everyone had departed, Torvar sent to fetch the last piece of Wuuthrad in Kodlak’s bedside table, he gave her a frank glance. “We finally have all the pieces of Ysgramor’s axe Wuuthrad. The tales say it was forged from the ebony Ysgramor wept after the massacre of Saarthal, but… that’s not quite true.”

Despite the sorrowful occasion, her lips quirked in amusement. “I remember thinking as an acolyte reading that story how much molten ebony would have hurt his eyes.”

Eorlund laughed despite himself. “Aye! But the ebony was quenched in his tears and the storms that raged between Skyrim and Atmora. What people didn’t know was that his eldest son Ylgar was a Tongue – and as his youngest Yngol forged the Storm’s Tears, Ylgar heated it with the fire Shout.”

“Tell me the beat to Shout to,” she said simply. “Dibellans are very good at measuring their breathing.”

After Torvar had delivered the spike of Wuuthrad and gone back to the hall to grieve, Eorlund cast all the pieces of the great ebony battleaxe into the pyre and began to twist the energies of the Skyforge as the Dragonborn breathed deeply. Then it was a matter of measuring ‘Yol’ to the ring of the hammer, folding and refolding the power of the earth’s fiery heart’s blood into the layers of the ebony. Strength drained from them both as the pyre was consumed into the greater fire of the Skyforge and Eorlund was shocked to discover she knew the art of enchanting something with her own innate magic instead of thieving souls from others.

Finally, it was done, and he quenched Wuuthrad into a trough that the Dragonborn had wept into. When he pulled the weapon out, the screaming elf on the axe-blade had become a hawk-masked woman with her arms stretched out protectively over depictions of women with moth and wolf masks. “Kyne, Dibella and Mara,” he breathed.

Aurelia wiped her eyes. “Did we do something wrong?”

“No.” Eorlund showed her Wuuthrad. “Kyne is the hawk, Dibella the moth and Mara the wolf in the old Nord faith. Ysgramor’s axe used to have a screaming elf on it.”

“I was praying to the Three Mothers as we worked,” she admitted, chagrined. “It seemed appropriate.”

“It was,” Eorlund assured her. “You’ve consecrated Wuuthrad to a new purpose. We just now need to choose its new wielder.”

The Dragonborn bit her lip. “I know Skjor was Kodlak’s second and Vilkas is the smarter one, but Farkas has the greatest emotional intelligence and… well, he breathes honour. After everything…”

Eorlund smiled. “I think you’ll find the Circle has come to the same conclusion. You don’t reach it without understanding your own honour and where it should stand in the river of life. But I think you already know that, Dragonborn, because you’ve already done it.”

He nodded to the stairs. “Come. The Circle is in the Underforge.”

“The old man had one wish before he died. And he didn't get it. It's as simple as that,” Vilkas was saying as they entered the Underforge.

“Being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas,” Aela retorted.

“That's fine for you. But he wanted to be clean. He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovngarde. But all that was taken from him,” Vilkas countered.

“Not exactly,” Eorlund told them. “There’s a way to be cured of the beast blood, even after death.”

He handed Wuuthrad to a surprised Farkas. “You need to ask the Glenmoril Witches for the cure, then cast it on the Flame of the Harbinger in Ysgramor’s Tomb.”

“Ask them? I say we take their heads for lying to Terrfyg!” spat Vilkas.

“Kodlak did not care for vengeance,” Farkas reminded them.

“No, Farkas, he didn't. And that's not what this is about. We should be honouring Kodlak, no matter our own thoughts on the blood,” Vilkas agreed.

“You're right. It's what he wanted, and he deserved to have it,” Aela grudgingly conceded.

“But we need Wuuthrad to enter the Tomb of Ysgramor,” Vilkas observed, so intent on his own line of thought that he’d missed the great ebony battleaxe in his brother’s arms.

“There the souls of Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel,” Aela quoted. “We can't even enter the tomb without Wuuthrad, and it's in pieces, like it has been for a thousand years.”

Eorlund sighed. “And dragons were just stories. And the elves once ruled Skyrim. Just because something is, doesn't mean it must be. The blade is a weapon. A tool. Tools are meant to be broken. And repaired.”

“Is that? Did you repair the blade?” Vilkas asked in surprise, finally seeing Wuuthrad in Farkas’ hands.

“This is the first time I've had all the pieces. ‘The flames of a hero can reforge the shattered.’ The flames of Kodlak and Tilma with the tears of the Dragonborn shall fuel the rebirth of Wuuthrad. And now it will take you to meet him once more.”

“You want me to bear it?” Farkas asked quietly.

“As the one who will bear Jorrvaskr’s honour as Harbinger, I think you should be the one to carry Wuuthrad into battle,” Eorlund said warmly. “The rest of you, prepare to journey to Glenmoril Cavern and the Tomb of Ysgramor. For Kodlak!”

“For Kodlak!” the rest of the Circle cried.

“The Silver Hand’s main fort is on the way,” Vilkas growled as they headed towards the secret entrance.

“We’ll take care of it,” promised Skjor.

Farkas was the last to leave. “How’d you guess they’d make me Harbinger?”

“Who else could it have been?” Eorlund inhaled deeply and exhaled explosively. “Matriarch Catriona of Glenmoril was a Nord before she became a Hag. Don’t let Vilkas say anything stupid. After Dengeir, she’s not fond of lowlander Nords.”

“What did my grandfather do to her?” Aurelia asked, speaking for the first time. “He’s a sad little man but…”

“They were wed. Once, the southern Reacher clans tried to make peace with Falkreath and Hjaalmarch so they could access their holy sites,” Eorlund told her. “It worked in Hjaalmarch because most of them are half-Reacher. But Dengeir sent Sigdrifa to the Shieldmaidens of Talos and since the Reachfolk loathe Him, Catriona took it as a personal betrayal.”

“My grandmother’s a Glenmoril Witch?” Aurelia asked.

“Aye, lass.”

She pursed her lips. “Farkas, may I come along? I need to access the Reach and this may be the best chance to make some kind of diplomatic request. I know how my mother would gain me access… and I’ve no wish to walk on the corpses of Reachfolk.”

“Of course.” Farkas smiled at her. “You can consider yourself part of Jorrvaskr, if you want.”

“Thank you.” Aurelia sighed and rubbed her eyes. “It never ends.”

No, it never did, for history never ended while the time-serpent still danced.


	26. Thane of Winterhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. I’ll folding Bjarni’s original canon into this story. It suits him so well and he didn’t get much character development in TOTA.

“This is… interesting.”

Bjarni wasn’t sure how he’d gotten Onmund Broken-Tusk and Brelyna Maryon of House Telvanni as his companions in the search for the _Pride of Tel Vos_ and the Helm of Winterhold. Lacking anything better to do since he was stuck in Winterhold, he’d decided to take a few classes at the College – and after assisting the two in minor matters, they’d decided to accompany him on his ‘adventures’. Suvaris and Faryl were relieved to be left behind in the small village, the former investigating the Hold’s poor economic state and the latter talking about farming with Haran, Dagur’s wife. Korir had let his fiefdom get into a shocking state of neglect.

“Oh?” he asked Brelyna, who was reading a still-legible notebook covered in waterproofed guar hide and embossed with the Telvanni sigil.

“My mother Lilitu is the head of House Telvanni because her elder brother Lymdrenn died in the Argonian invasion of Morrowind,” the sorceress explained, glancing up from the notebook. “We thought his son Brandyl dead too. But… if this is correct… he might have survived.”

“I could scry for you,” offered Onmund. “Can’t be too many members of House Telvanni in Skyrim and if this Brandyl’s close blood-kin, it’ll be easier to locate him.”

Bjarni pursed his lips. “Try Riften. I know there’s a merchant there – Brand-Shei – who was raised by Argonians. Good, honest man stuck in a bad place, honestly.”

Brelyna paused, then nodded. “Do it.”

Wuunferth, Windhelm’s court wizard, used all matter of arcane gestures to cast his scrying spells but Onmund, trained in the Clever Craft still practiced on the coasts of Skyrim, required only a bowl of seawater and a drop of blood from Brelyna. Sure enough, the image of Brand-Shei haggling with another Dunmer appeared.

“Two centuries of mystery solved in two minutes,” Brelyna said softly after Onmund ended the spell. “I… This will affect matters of inheritance. A mer raised by Argonians can’t become the House head, no matter his right or competency.”

“Tell him the role passed to your mother, his aunt, and make him the agent of House Telvanni in Skyrim or something,” Bjarni suggested. “Get him out of Riften and bring him up here. Winterhold could use another merchant.”

“Winterhold could use another ruler,” Brelyna said bluntly. “But… that’s already occurred to you, hasn’t it? Assisting Haran and Ranmir, investing in Birna’s shop… The Thanes of Eastmarch won’t have you and Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath is notoriously hateful of magic, so you won’t inherit that Hold. It makes sense as the Stormcloaks are ascendant in the civil war, you’d build for yourself a powerbase – and given your obvious affinity for magic and diplomacy, Winterhold’s the best option.”

“Talos knows we need a competent Jarl around here,” Onmund agreed as he fished the Helm of Winterhold out of another chest. “So, we camping here or heading home?”

“Going home. Camping on the Sea of Ghosts in winter is no pleasure,” Bjarni said firmly.

“I thought it was early autumn,” remarked Brelyna as they headed back up to the flat snow plains surrounding Winterhold.

“Up here, there’s two seasons – less-winter and more-winter,” Onmund explained.

“Why couldn’t the College have been built somewhere pleasant like Whiterun?” Brelyna said with a sigh.

“Because this place was sacred to Kynareth and before the College was built, it was the Ysmir Collective,” Bjarni told her. “The Sky Temple behind the College was once a great temple to Kyne. Winterhold was once the capital – secular and sacred – of Skyrim after Bromjunaar – Labyrinthian – fell into ruins once the Dragon Priests were overthrown.”

“Ah.”

It was full dark by the time they returned to Winterhold and Bjarni entered the Frozen Hearth. He had a room at the College as an ‘apprentice’ but since Suvaris and Faryl weren’t allowed there, he stayed at the inn that served as Winterhold’s hub of… well, everything.

“The Helm,” he said to Korir, presenting the stalhrim-banded helmet of Skyforge Steel.

“Well, maybe you are serious about Winterhold regaining prestige,” Korir observed grudgingly. “But be careful of that College. Nothing but elves and mages there.”

“My retainers are Dunmer,” Bjarni reminded him.

Korir grunted. “They’ve lived among Nords long enough to become civilised.”

Bjarni reminded himself that calling one of his father’s staunchest supporters a fucking idiot was undiplomatic and went to get some food. It had been a long cold day.

The next morning, he joined the apprentices as they went to the Saarthal excavations. Getting trapped after removing an ivory amulet from the wall and then casting Flames on it was only the start of a long journey through a tomb, then being warned by Psijics he’d unleashed something and would be watched for eventual judgment. He found a new Word for his sister, some big magical orb and the first piece of the legendary Gauldur Amulet.

Two days after that, Korir held a ceremony that made him Thane of Winterhold, complete with a snazzy staff ‘since he liked mages so much’. Kraldar, the other Thane, looked a little disgruntled but Kai Wet-Pommel, the local Stormcloak commander, seemed quite pleased.

“Personal retainers to a Thane,” Faryl said as he toasted Bjarni with some sujamma. “We’re coming up in the world.”

“More rank means more work,” Bjarni told him. “Tomorrow, I get to ride out to a bandit stronghold with Kai and deal with them.”

“Are you sure you’re fully healed?” Suvaris asked anxiously.

“Colette tells me I am,” Bjarni assured her.

“Colette’s an idiot,” Suvaris noted.

“But she _is_ a decent healer. I’ve seen my brother use Restoration enough to acknowledge her skill.” Bjarni drained a cup of flin. “Just don’t drink her alchemical preparations and you’ll be right.”

Suvaris shook her head and returned to her bowl of horker stew.

“She seems to care for you,” Kai observed as he nursed a single mug of mead. For a Nord and Stormcloak, he was abstemious in his drinking habits. Egil drank more than him, and Egil was practically a teetotaller.

“Galmar’s brother liked to abuse her a lot back in Windhelm,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “It got the point where my mother threatened to throw me into the Bloodworks for repeatedly punching Rolff in the face.”

“Rolff’s a prick,” Kai agreed. “So… is it true the Dragonborn’s a…”

“She’s a priestess of Dibella born from my mother’s first, not often discussed marriage,” Bjarni said with another sigh.

“There’s two men in the world with the balls to marry Sigdrifa Stormsword?” Kai asked in disbelief.

“The first one was arranged. From what I gather, he couldn’t get out of there soon enough,” Bjarni told him. “My mother isn’t _that_ bad.”

“I’m sure she has her sentimental moments. Never seen them, but I’m sure it’s happened.” Kai finished his drink. “Dibellan priestess? What is she doing, fucking Alduin to death?”

“I punched Rolff for saying something very similar,” Bjarni warned. “My sister usually relies on mercenaries or occasionally Stormcloaks and the Companions where she can. She’s normally a scribe by trade.”

“The gods are having a good laugh at us,” Kai mused. “A Dibellan Dragonborn.”

“Maybe they figured one Talos was enough.”


	27. The Glenmoril Matriarch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, genocide, child abuse and child abandonment. I head-canon that Cracked Tusk Keep and Bilgegulch Mine are actually claimed as part of the Fourth Orsinium, hence the Orcish populations there.

“Well, this is creepy.”

Farkas smiled wryly at Aurelia. “It’s home to a bunch of Hagravens who worship Hircine. What were ya expectin’, sunshine and bunny rabbits?”

“I wasn’t expecting decapitated spriggan heads.”

Aela glanced over her shoulder before calling out something in a lilting language with strangely harsh consonants. Within moments, a lithe Breton wearing little more than head to toe tattoos and skimpy armour comprising of leather, bone and fur emerged.

“Greetings, Companions of Jorrvaskr,” she said in a pleasant alto. “I am Kaie mac Fareda of Lost Valley Clan.”

“Kaie!” Aela exclaimed. “The last time I saw you, you were knee-high to a grasshopper!”

“Huntress!” Kaie broke into a big smile. “Have you come to renew the compact with Hircine?”

Aela coughed. “We seek two cures – one for Vilkas here and another for Kodlak, who has passed in a Silver Hand attack.”

“I’d heard the Whitemane had retired to Jorrvaskr,” Kaie said slowly.

“They attacked Jorrvaskr,” Skjor said grimly. “We intend to wipe them out on the way to Ysgramor’s Tomb.”

Kaie’s expression was flinty. “Hircine strengthen your arm, pack leader. Matriarch Catriona will see you.”

They entered the cave, which was a warren of alcoves and tunnels. Everywhere Aurelia looked there were ragged Bretons, women and womer of various in dark sackcloth robes, frostbite spiders and even goats. The air itself stank of unwashed humanity and fear. “Is something wrong?” she asked Farkas softly. “This looks like a refugee camp.”

“The Stormcloaks have themselves a Dragonborn, if the rumours from the lowlands are true,” Kaie said over her shoulder. “The Forsworn have evacuated as many of its civilians from the redoubts as possible. We remember the last Talos.”

“Rumours can be garbled,” Aurelia said quietly. “I can assure you, personally, that the Dragonborn is not the second coming of Talos and has no desire to conquer _anything._ ”

“We will vouch for the Dragonborn’s honour,” Aela added. “The Stormcloaks are the only ones who have assisted her in defeating dragons outside of Jorrvaskr, hence the assumption of allegiance.”

Kaie’s eyes widened and then narrowed as she studied Aurelia.

“I will let the Matriarch decide,” she said finally. “The cures you shall have and safe conduct given. Anything else, you’ll have to convince Catriona.”

If someone had taken Sigdrifa, bent her spine, made feathers sprout randomly over her body and given her long talons on fingers and toes, they would have created Catriona. Tall and spare, her beady pale green eyes examined each Companion in order, finally settling on Farkas with Wuuthrad across his back. “So you seek a cure,” the Hagraven croaked. “Do you wish to end the compact with Hircine?”

“Vilkas wishes to be free of the beast blood an’ Kodlak wanted to be free of it,” Farkas said calmly. “Skjor an’ Aela will remain werewolves… an’ every Circle member will be given the choice, not forced into it.”

“So Kodlak was killed by the Silver Hand then?” The Hagraven sighed. “We didn’t agree on a lot of things, but we respected each other.”

“He didn’t die alone,” Vilkas growled. “Tsun will welcome him to Sovngarde.”

“I’m sure.” Catriona’s smile was sad and wry, a strange expression on such a wizened face.

“Matriarch, the Companions tell me that the Dragonborn’s alliance with the Stormcloaks is more because they’re the only ones helping her against the dragons instead of an actual allegiance,” Kaie said carefully. “I’ve been assured by the Dibellan that the Dragonborn has no desire to conquer anything.”

“That’s because the Dragonborn and the Dibellan are one and the same,” Aurelia said. “I come in peace, I will leave in peace, and I have no desire to war with the Forsworn. I only seek free passage to the Akaviri Temple on top of the Karthspire for myself and one or two Blades. The answers to defeating Alduin lie in that place.”

“The Companions vouch for her honour,” Farkas added. “She has stood alongside us in fights and defended Jorrvaskr during the Silver Hand attack.”

“More to the back and casting Healing spells or Shouting,” Aurelia admitted wryly. “I’m a calligrapher and illuminator by trade, not a warrior or battlemage.”

Catriona turned to a row of shelves behind her alchemy table and selected some charcoal in a vial, a twisted canis root and some mudcrab chitin. “Drink this or cast it onto the Flame of the Harbinger to exorcise your wolf spirit,” she told Vilkas. “Skeever charcoal, mudcrab chitin and canis root. Have a friend with a weapon ready to fight off the spirit because it won’t want to leave you.”

“Thank you,” Vilkas said with an incline of his head.

“Would you be offended if I pass that knowledge onto the Dibellans?” Aurelia asked. “Many people are afflicted with the were curse against their will.”

“Not at all. I’ve always been of the mind Hircine prefers quality over quantity when it comes to hunting beast or prey,” Catriona answered. “He hasn’t struck me down yet, so maybe I’m right.”

She nodded to the Companions. “Now leave us. I wish to speak to the Dragonborn alone.”

“I’ll be fine.” Aurelia assured Farkas. “My Shouts would match her Destruction spells if things go wrong… but I don’t think they will.”

Kaie led the Companions out and the Dragonborn studied the Hagraven who was her grandmother.

“You were gotten on the Stormsword by that Redguard, weren’t you?” Catriona asked bluntly.

“I was,” Aurelia confirmed.

“How’d she react to you become Dibellan?”

“She publicly pretended she’d gone virgin to Ulfric’s bed and that I never existed,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “Even when she knew otherwise, she told my brothers I was dead because I wasn’t Nord enough or too Imperialised or something.”

“Anything for Talos,” Catriona said bitterly. “They’ve taken Whiterun and Hjaalmarch; Idgrod capitulated to save her people a war and no one blames her one bit. The Reach will be next. They want its silver and the moral victory after the ‘Markarth Incident’.”

“I heard it was bad,” Aurelia said softly. “But I was an acolyte by then and they never gave us details and… I never looked.”

“You were fighting for your own survival after Arius’ idiocy,” Catriona said bluntly. “The utter irony was that if Arius had reached out to us and recognised Madanach as the High King of the Reach, we would have helped him. We recognised Orsinium and they recognised us; what you call western Falkreath is in reality eastern Orsinium and they’ve agreed to take Reacher refugees in return for us keeping the Stormcloaks out.”

“The irony of the Stormcloaks demanding religious freedom yet denying it to the Reachfolk isn’t beyond me,” Aurelia admitted. “I can’t or won’t help politically. I’m having enough trouble with the Empire as it is because the Penitus Oculatus is probably shitting itself at the thought of an Aurelii Dragonborn. But is there anything I can do on a humanitarian level?”

“The Stormcloaks are making a big deal of helping you,” Catriona told her with a sigh. “I understand you, yourself, won’t play politics. I don’t blame you. But…”

“But…?” Aurelia asked softly.

“I need you to get the Sybil of Dibella on our side. We’ve sent emissaries twice in the past eight weeks and the priestesses just keep on saying she’s not available.”

“She’s died and they’re trying to find the new one,” Aurelia said, her stomach dropping. “I… can’t tell you more than that.”

“I know about the Exalted protocols, girl. The hill-clans have supplied more than one Sybil – we recognise Dibella as one of the Three Mothers and She’s the only Aedric goddess still worshipped regularly by us,” Catriona countered. “For the most part, those you call Daedric Princes are more… immediate… with Their assistance.”

“The Empire under Talos did a good amount of destroying lay and folk traditions of worshipping the Divines,” Aurelia agreed grimly. “The Dibellans really had to scramble to save the Sibyls and incorporate them into an Imperially appropriate belief system.”

“Damn Imperial Cult,” Catriona said bitterly. “If only the Stormcloaks knew.”

“My mother and Ulfric probably know,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Catriona agreed. “Is it really the end of the world?”

“Not if I can get to Sky Haven Temple.”

“Then go to the Temple in Markarth, help them find the Sibyl, and get her support for us. We just want the right to worship and live our lives in peace. We’re even willing to cooperate and compromise.” Catriona’s expression was bleak. “If Ulfric and Sigdrifa cross the border, they’re dead. Do you understand this?”

“I understand,” Aurelia said softly. “I’m not in the business of vengeance, justified or otherwise.”

Catriona’s smile was a gruesome thing. “Don’t you know? Dibella is our goddess of righteous vengeance, for there is joy in defeating a reviled enemy.”


	28. Fire in Falkreath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and severe injury.

“Look, Astrid, I’m as uncomfortable to be Listener as you are to have me as such. But you fucked up when you attacked Bjarni Ulfricsson and put us all in a very, very awkward position.” Rustem bared his teeth in nothing that could be called a smile. “Normally, I’d Purify your ass and call it a day. But since I’m a kind man, I’ll let you and Arnbjorn pack up, get your asses over the Cyrodiil border, and never trouble us again. Your choice.”

“Why the Cyrodiil border?” Gabriella asked before Astrid could open her mouth.

“Because if they go within fifty miles of my family in Hammerfell, I’ll kill them in such a way that the Priests of Tu’whacca and Arkay will be baffled for centuries afterwards,” Rustem promised softly.

“It was an honest contract!” Astrid snapped.

“Well, who put it out? Because if you haven’t noticed, the Tenets imply all contracts should go through me.” Rustem tested the edge of his naginata with a thumb. “We should probably review a few of them. You know, just in case we have more awkward situations like this one.”

“That’s none of your business,” Astrid said sullenly.

“I’m the _Listener_. It’s my fucking business, whether we like it or not.”

“Just tell him,” Veezara said in some exasperation. “We need to get on with the Emperor job.”

Astrid was very silent for a long time and Arnbjorn began to grow.

A horrible thought occurred to Rustem. “Gods, it wasn’t _Sigdrifa_ , was it?”

“No,” Astrid said quickly.

**_“Astrid has betrayed us,”_** whispered the Night Mother.

_“Who?”_ Rustem pressed.

“Penitus Oculatus! Burn everything and everyone inside this Arkay-damned place!” ordered a familiar oiled-silk tenor.

“Irkand,” Rustem grated. “Let me guess, you don’t have a back entrance to this place.”

“No,” Veezara said grimly. “We must fight our way out.”

“Maro promised he’d leave us alone!” Astrid cried out.

“Even after I executed his son?” Rustem asked, calling ice to wreathe around his naginata. “Don’t answer that. We can decide your punishment later. Festus, Gabriella! Lay down frost spells to dampen the fire. Knowing Irkand, assume he’s got Direnni fire and delayed Fire Rune spells.”

“Frost and Storm Runes should do the trick,” Festus agreed as he started calling the spells. “Gabriella, dear, you’re better with Telekinesis. Go to the chapel of Sithis. The supports there are weak and so you can bring down the roof to escape.”

“Festus,” Rustem began, only to receive a grim look from the mage.

“I’m too old to make it out. I’d rather sell my life dearly and help my siblings escape.” He nodded to the others.

“Astrid, Arnbjorn, you two will buy him time,” Rustem ordered grimly. “Consider this your punishment.”

“I did what I had to!” Astrid protested.

“You’ve betrayed the Brotherhood!” Veezara cried. “How could you?”

“Don’t dilly-dally. Get out of here!” Festus snapped.

Arnbjorn simply assumed werewolf form after giving his wife a mingled glance of love, contempt and disappointment. Rustem raised his naginata in salute and led the others out, laying trap spells of his own along the way. Babette looked ready to weep and even Nazir was grim.

The cavern was, as Festus told them, readily weakened and Rustem’s naginata-channelled Telekinesis spell knocked it down as Gabriella Warded them all. Outside, they could hear violence and yelling. Babette was the first up there, followed by Gabriella, and the latter used her own Telekinesis to lighten the others as they climbed up.

The Penitus Oculatus had come in number but were careless, assuming because it was night the Brotherhood would be asleep and helpless against Irkand’s firebombs. That made it simple for Veezara and Babette to slay them all and stuff their corpses back into the Sanctuary, then bar the door closed.

They were a half-mile away when the explosion rocked the entire forest of Falkreath. Rustem could only hope that Irkand had been gathered to Arkay’s bosom. Innocent of betraying the Blades or not, he’d aligned himself with the Empire and therefore had betrayed the Aurelii.

Gabriella wept for Festus and even Rustem wiped his eyes. “He’s welcome in the Void,” the Listener said. “But we better get going. It’s a long trip to the Pale.”

…

Runil buried his face in his hands as the Penitus Oculatus agent breathed his last. Of a twenty-strong force that assaulted the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary just outside of town, only three escaped the explosion, and of them only one still lived – albeit with severe burns. Arkay truly held Irkand in the palm of His hand.

Aurelia rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed sympathetically. Runil and Zaria wouldn’t have been able to save Irkand if it wasn’t for the Dragonborn Dibellan’s help – but then, she fought for her uncle’s life. Only the gods knew why she was in Falkreath at such a fortuitous time.

“Feed him juice and broth,” she told Runil. “When he’s awake, tell him I’m alright, but I couldn’t stay. Every day I linger is another day Alduin can feast on the souls of the heroic dead in Sovngarde. He was a Blade. He’ll understand.”

The Altmer priest nodded. “I will. Arkay with you.”

She gave her uncle one last glance before leaving the cottage which served as Runil’s temple.

Irkand didn’t wake up for three days. When he did, his voice was hoarse and his face seamed with burns, his eyes milky from blindness. Whatever Irkand did with his life, he would never fight again.

There would be those who’d call Arkay cruel for letting His servant live. But Runil had served the Divine for over twenty years and could see the mercy in His choice. Irkand, if he was wise, had the choice to make peace with his dead before going into the great beyond.

“Aurelia, Dragonborn?” he’d wheezed when Runil gave him the news. “What was Akatosh thinking?”

“That she has no vainglory, an infinite amount of compassion and a good deal more empathy than the last one,” Runil said calmly.

Irkand snorted. “Have you met the rest of her family? She’s a saint compared to them.”

“And you,” Runil pointed out. “I know you killed things for the Emperor while in Arkay’s service. I will leave it to the Divine to decide whether or not that was wrong. But now, you face a diverging path – to serve the Empire or to serve Arkay. There is no middle ground now.”

“My brother… he intends to kill the Emperor!”

“Yes, I suspected as such when word of Gaius Maro and Vittoria Vicci’s deaths reached Falkreath,” Runil agreed. “But I say to you again, Irkand: will you serve the Empire or Arkay?”

The man’s scarred face twisted and Runil felt a little pity for him. But only a little. Irkand had been a remorseless killer and tool of greater powers for many years. It was high time he struggled through the wilderness of uncertainty and self-reflection. Or… continue as he had, in which case Runil would dispatch him with a Legion patrol to County Bruma and make him the Empire’s problem.

“Arkay,” Irkand said after several minutes.

Runil smiled. “Very well. We shall begin by laying those you have slain to rest. Even the most hardened nithing deserves proper rites…”

Perhaps there was some hope for the man yet.


	29. By Grain and Honey and Mead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Yes, I’m cribbing Corinthians 13: 4-8 (NIV) for the Dibellan marriage ceremony as it’s a beautiful verse.

Finding her brother Egil and his (ex-)lover Njada at Ivarstead waiting for her was the last in an eventful week for Aurelia. Discovering that they wanted to marry in defiance of Sigdrifa Stormsword was probably the cherry on the crap cake that had been the past couple days. But Dibella’s edicts were clear and the love that bound these two was palpable to anyone with half an eye to see it. They loved without malice, in honesty and good will. As a priestess, it was Aurelia’s duty to marry them.

“Who’s in charge around here?” she asked Egil. “We need two witnesses for legal purposes.”

“That’s Imperial law,” called out Lynly Star-Sung, the village barmaid and bard. “In Skyrim, if you don’t get married at the Temple of Mara, the village standing as witness will count legally.”

“Temba and Klimmek will do,” Njada said. “We’ve already helped them.”

Temba was the local mill owner and Klimmek a fisherman who sent dried fish up to High Hrothgar on a regular basis. They gathered everyone, even a couple of Hold guards, in the common room of the Vilemyr Inn. Gwilin, a Bosmer woodcutter, even cracked a joke about inviting the ghosts and draugr of Shroud Hearth Barrow. Egil didn’t seem amused.

Njada wore a crown of aspen leaves and mountain flower; Egil a crown of aspen and snowberries. Both wore bearskin cloaks and carried their weapons. Wilhelm had provided a flagon of mead and a plate of bread smeared with the honey that the Rift was famous for. “During the ceremony they break the bread and share the goblet,” he murmured to Aurelia.

Aurelia spent an hour or so freshening up. Her robes hadn’t been cleaned in about three days – not since before trying to save the injured from the Penitus Oculatus raid on the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary – and it took several combings to get her hair properly neatened. Aside from her Amulet of Dibella, she had no ecclesiastical jewellery, not even the proper stole for a wedding. In Skyrim, it probably didn’t matter. The soap provided was harsh with lye but it did its work with magic taking care of the rest.

“You cheated,” Lynly observed with a wry smile as Aurelia emerged from the room Dagur had given her.

“Dibellans have a few clerical tricks up our sleeves,” Aurelia admitted, passing a hand over her eyes. Gods but she wanted a day to just rest. Yet if she did, the heroes of Sovngarde faced annihilation at the claws and teeth of Alduin.

“Everyone’s here. Can we get on with it?” Temba asked acidly.

Aurelia stepped forward in front of Egil and Njada, who were staring at each other with stars in their eyes, and took a deep breath to compose herself.

“In Jorrvaskr, I was told by the Companions that Nords seal oaths and vows by sharing mead because it was a gift of the gods,” she said, glancing around the room. “Honey, hops and other ingredients are combined and allowed to ferment into something greater than the sum of its parts. Mead can bring camaraderie and mirth to a hall; but it is also the mother of discord and the sister to violence. Love is like mead. It can warm your heart and hearth… or it can rankle into obsession and dissatisfaction if not tempered by other things.”

Aurelia clasped her hands together. “The Sibyls of Dibella tell us this from the Divine’s own mouth: ‘Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away’.”

She turned and picked up the bread smeared with honey, breaking it into two pieces. “Bread is the staff of life, served from tables high to a pit by the fire in the lowest shack. I’m told Dibella is the moth in Skyrim’s folktales because Her Sibyls prophesy on occasion; but Dibella is also the honeybee, for She is sweet and hard-working but if Her gifts are abused She has an almighty sting. So eat this bread and honey and be aware that what you put into your love will be what you receive from it. Passion is all very well but if it is not supported by friendship – like living only on honey without bread to sustain you – it will end poorly and ruin your life.”

Egil and Njada each ate their piece of bread solemnly.

“As in all things, passion may end. Grain can die from frost or blight; the bee dies when its time is done. Love can end with it or endure beyond the bright flame of lust. Maybe you can rekindle it; maybe not. But just because you may no longer warm yourself at the great fire in the palace of a king doesn’t mean you should shun the hearth-fire of a beloved friend. Be a friend first and foremost. For that is the heart of a love that will last the ravages of time.”

She handed the cup to Njada, who drank first and then gave it to Egil, who finished off the mead on the cup and handed it back to Aurelia.

“Do you, Egil, swear to be lover and friend to Njada for as long as your doom decrees it?”

“I do,” he said clearly.

“Do you, Njada, swear to be lover and friend to Egil for as long as your doom decrees it?”

“I do,” she said simply.

“By grain and honey and mead, you are bound. In Dibella’s name, I declare you wed. Embrace each other and treasure the noble gifts of friendship and love.”

The two embraced and kissed as everyone else in the inn cheered.

“Mead’s on the house until these two go to bed!” Wilhelm announced – receiving a bigger cheer. It just showed where Nords put their priorities.

Aurelia tendered her congratulations and waited until the party was in full swing before leaving quietly. She still had a long climb to High Hrothgar – and Alduin grew in strength every hour. But it was still a good thing to be able to do something as a priestess that gave joy instead of sorrow.


	30. Choices and News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, sexual intercourse, misogyny, slut-shaming, genocide, war crimes and child abandonment. Loads of head-canon for magic and priestly rituals that extend lives plus a theory about the Silver Hand and the Companions I heard on YouTube (possibly Fudgemuppet or someone else) that I quite liked.

“You took your time returning to us with the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller,” Arngeir noted as Aurelia handed over the revered artefact.

“Just because things are quiet up here doesn’t mean it’s like that down there,” was her slightly exasperated response.

Arngeir raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were eschewing politics?”

“I am. But friends of mine suffered an attack, I had to make a diplomatic contact with the Forsworn to access Alduin’s Wall in the Reach, there was a wedding that needed performing and a healing that needed doing.” Aurelia crossed her arms. “The House of Dibella is a religious order that dwells in the world, not apart from it. That means the little things as well as the bigger things.”

“The power of the Thu’um must be kept sacred and away from the world, or it will become tainted by the petty politics of Jarls,” Arngeir answered, nettled by the implied criticism. “Look at how Ulfric’s misused it!”

“Ulfric and Sigdrifa will answer to Talos one day. But Dibella teaches us to cherish the world and not hold ourselves away from it. I wasn’t criticising you, Arngeir, I was stating a simple fact.” Aurelia tilted her head, long black braid falling over one shoulder. “I’ll admit I’ve Shouted in anger a couple times but otherwise, I speak only in true need. Isn’t that the Way of the Voice?”

Arngeir would have responded but Wulfgar led the others into the main hall. It was time to greet the Dragonborn formally.

“Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”

“Naal suleyk do Dibella,” she whispered as the thunder faded away.

He bit his tongue. She obviously held her oaths dear, even if Dibella wasn’t likely to help her much in defeating Alduin.

“Dovahkiin. You have tasted the Voice of the Greybeards, and passed through unscathed. High Hrothgar is open to you,” he conceded grudgingly.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll return to Ivarstead. Alduin’s Wall holds the key to defeating Alduin, that much I remember from the Blades dragonlore.”

“Do any Blades remain?” Arngeir asked cautiously.

“Two, one of whom isn’t pleased to be reminded of her oaths because I refuse to be ordered around like a lackey,” Aurelia admitted. “I’m getting more help from the Dark Brotherhood and Thieves’ Guild, of all people.”

“You’re accepting help from murderers and criminals?” Arngeir demanded, appalled.

“If my ancestor Martin Septim was willing to name a bare-knuckled brawler with drinking and anger management issues his champion and closest companion, I’m not too proud to accept the help of my father and his allies!” she snapped in return. “You might have the luxury to sit up here and judge but the Empire already sent _one_ agent to conscript me and I know the Thalmor are probably biding their time before acting. _I may be staying out of politics but that doesn’t mean I move through the world unaffected by them!_ ”

“Any involvement in politics will devour you!” Arngeir told her frustratedly. “It is easy for a Dragonborn to believe their actions are justified because to a dragon, might makes right. The Thu’um cannot be tainted by politics. It leads only to ruin.”

She stared at him fixedly before narrowing her eyes. “Julius Martin.”

“Yes,” Arngeir admitted wearily. “I came here believing I was Dragonborn. Paarthurnax taught me an extended lesson in humility before I realised my place was here, for the Thu’um had no place in the secular world.”

Aurelia closed her eyes, counted to ten in two languages Arngeir recognised and five he didn’t, and sighed in a slow steady manner that produced an actual gust of wind.

“I won’t burden you with what went wrong after you abandoned Arius,” she finally said, opening her eyes. “But I’m reminded of a proverb the Resolution of Zenithar likes to quote on a regular basis: ‘autonomy is the price of laziness’. The less you choose for yourself, the more others will choose for you until there are no choices remaining. Irkand, your grandson, allowed his life to be dictated by others and now the best he can hope for is to be a priest of Arkay in a backwoods village. You chose not to choose… and now all you can do is sit on a mountain and call it a moral choice.”

“You know nothing of those times,” Arngeir said coldly.

“No… Your descendants just had to live with the consequences,” Aurelia said softly. “I will trouble your seclusion as little as possible, Arngeir. In return, I would appreciate if you stop judging the choices I have made because I must live in the world.”

“You, yourself, are judging me.”

“I suppose I am,” she agreed. “Dibella will forgive me for being human enough to do so. I hope Kynareth is as understanding for you.”

She bowed slightly to the other Greybeards. “Alduin waits on none of us. Dibella with you all.”

…

Egil was breakfasting with Njada when Aurelia returned to the Vilemyr Inn in the grey light of dawn. They’d heard the Greybeards greet her in the night, the Thu’um rolling across Skyrim like thunder from the gods themselves, and then got right back to consummating their marriage. Tomorrow, they would go south to register the marriage with Laila Law-Giver’s court, then return to Windhelm with the news.

“You missed the party,” Njada told Aurelia as she handed the Dragonborn a slice of bread and snowberry jam.

“I had an argument with the speaker of the Greybeards, who turned out to be one of my paternal relatives who’d mysteriously disappeared about a century or so ago,” Aurelia admitted with a grimace.

“You have merish ancestors?” Egil asked in surprise.

“Not that I know of. That was another branch of the Aurelii.” Aurelia accepted a mug of juice from Wilhelm. “Julius Martin was an exceptional sorcerer with great command of Alteration and Restoration. Between that and assuming the Greybeards practice similar priestly techniques to the Dibellans, you can extend your life by twice or thrice a normal lifespan… Of course, non-Bretons tend to see about two centuries at the very most.”

She ate and drank neatly but with great speed. “You have to be _very_ good though, to avoid the poisons of age affecting you. My grandfather Arius knew enough to lengthen his life, but not enough to ward off senility. Or maybe he was just cracked beyond repair.”

“From the little Sigdrifa said about him, it was probably the latter,” Njada said bluntly.

“Probably,” Aurelia agreed.

“Your relatives sound like they got around more than Sanguine on a bender,” Wilhelm noted.

“You have no idea.” Aurelia drank a second mug of juice. “Now I need to return to the Pale, pick up a certain loremaster and get us to the Reach.”

“Travel with us to Riften and catch a carriage from there,” Njada suggested. “We need to register our marriage with Jarl Laila’s court anyway.”

She nodded. “I should check in with Brynjolf and maybe grab Marcurio again. Esbern’s a competent mage but he’s somewhere around eighty… and not the greatest at Restoration or Alteration.”

Aurelia sat down at their table. “Njada, have you heard about what happened at Jorrvaskr?”

“No.” The warrior looked troubled. “I should have returned but… after everything, I wanted to marry Egil. If it’s the end of days, I’d rather be happy.”

“It won’t be the end if I have anything to say about it.” Aurelia sighed and rubbed her eyes before lowering her voice. “A rival group attacked Jorrvaskr because _some_ of the Circle had a pact with Hircine. They became werewolves who could maintain their intellect and human instincts in beast form, at the cost of forfeiting Sovngarde. For a few, it was worth the price. The Silver Hand felt otherwise.”

“The Silver Hand might have been noble once, but they chose to recruit thugs after their founders died,” Egil said disgustedly. “I think the founders were once Companions… if someone started a pact to Hircine, it would have disgusted those who felt otherwise.”

“I get the impression this Harbinger was long on honour, short on intelligence,” Aurelia observed dryly before her expression sobered once more. “Kodlak Whitemane and Tilma were murdered.”

Njada gasped in horror. “Tilma did no harm!”

“I won’t repeat what the Silver Hand said to me when Kodlak tried to get me out of there,” Aurelia continued grimly. “Suffice to say, I can breathe fire now, and Unrelenting Force is an excellent way to break up tightly packed enemies.”

In that moment, the resemblance between Aurelia and Sigdrifa was stark. Egil wrestled with his innate disgust for Daedric cultists and the horror of someone daring to attack Jorrvaskr.

“Has the pact with Hircine been ended?” he asked finally.

“Not… exactly. Now members of the Circle are given the choice.” Aurelia sighed. “Farkas is Harbinger and the Circle negotiated with Matriarch Catriona of the Glenmoril Coven for a cure for those who wanted to be free of the beast blood. They were going to free Kodlak and the other Harbingers when I parted ways with them.”

Njada nodded thoughtfully. “Farkas isn’t the smartest, but he’s the most honourable. Vilkas is too angry, Aela’s too arrogant and Skjor loves fighting too much.”

“I said something like that to the Circle.” Aurelia helped herself to another slice of bread. “Between us, Eorlund and I reforged Wuuthrad. It’s no longer dedicated to killing mer but to the Three Mothers – Dibella, Mara and Kynareth – in Their Nordic totemic forms. I… don’t know what that means, only that I was praying to all three goddesses as I used Fire Breath to heat the axe.”

“The Hearth-Gods,” Njada said softly. “In the old Nord faith, they’re the Hearth-Gods who represent heart, home and honour respectively.”

Egil sighed. The Companions protected Skyrim and apparently used Hircine’s gifts to do it. The Vigilants would purge them if they knew… but it would also shatter Skyrim.

“How’d the other whelps take it?” Njada asked.

Aurelia grimaced. “Ria threatened to tell the Legion. I told her to return to Cyrodiil and fix her own damn Empire because Skyrim was done with it.”

Njada winced. “Ria was difficult, but she had honour.”

“Her full name is Akaviria Mara Nona Medea and she is the Imperial Heir, granddaughter to Titus Mede and probably last of her line if my suspicions about what the Dark Brotherhood’s planning are true,” Aurelia said softly. “I told her she should tell the Companions the truth but she didn’t. I guess the last of the Aurelii wasn’t worth listening to… and only worth blaming when someone’s choices were their own damned fault.”

“I thought she was in a finishing school in High Rock,” Egil said sardonically.

“I think she had good intentions to show the Nords how much she respected them but…” Aurelia shook her head. “Nothing based on deception lasts the test of time. I know that much.”

“She didn’t technically lie,” Njada said slowly.

“But she didn’t tell you the whole of the truth.” Aurelia sighed. “I like to think the Stormcloaks would have respected Jorrvaskr’s neutrality if it was known the Imperial Heir was there…”

“But you’re the Stormsword’s daughter and you know better,” Njada said bluntly.

“Indeed. I’m also Rustem Aurelius’ daughter and I know that he doesn’t believe in collateral damage. Astrid took a very unwise contract on Bjarni and from what I’ve heard, he was going to deal with her as Listener.” Aurelia shuddered. “I’m not sure what happened, but the Penitus Oculatus tried to raid the Brotherhood Sanctuary in Falkreath about five days ago with my uncle Irkand leading them. It ended with most of the agents dead and my uncle blinded, burned and incapable of serving Imperial interests as an assassin anymore. It took two priests and an alchemist to save his life.”

“Sigdrifa always conceded Rustem was better at ambushes. He probably combined the purification of the Sanctuary with the wiping out of Mede’s security force,” Njada said cheerfully.

“Yes, my father was good at that,” Aurelia agreed grimly. “My uncle… well, he has time to think and consider. I think it will be a novel experience for him. Runil used to be a Thalmor battlemage, so maybe he can help him through the thorny path of redemption and self-reflection.”

Sigdrifa had always said Irkand Aurelius was little more than an autonomous hunter-killer weapon and regretted his loyalty to the Empire because he’d have made a great tool for Talos. Egil had come to the conclusion a long time ago that his mother’s cognitive empathy was shaky at best.

“Sounds like we missed a lot,” he finally said. “Windhelm should be interesting when we get back with news of our wedding.”

Aurelia laughed. “I’ll hear Mother’s screams in the Reach.”


	31. Let's Save the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for criminal acts and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, misogyny, slut-shaming and torture.

“Etienne, lad, there’s someone who needs to talk to you.”

The ragged Breton with the visible scars of torture glanced up at Brynjolf and his gorgeous brunette friend. “I don’t think sex is gonna fix me, Bryn. Appreciate the thought though.”

“While I’m no Danica Pure-Spring, I’m a better healer than that idiot Maramal at the Benevolence of Mara, and I’m rather more experienced at tending survivors of Thalmor hospitality than either,” the Dibellan said with some asperity. “You suffered much, Etienne, and may have saved us all. But if you don’t wish healing…”

It clicked. Dibellan. Dragons. Old crazy Esbern in the Vaults. “You’re the one they were asking about!”

“Yes.” There was a fathomless sorrow in those blue-green eyes with their golden core. “Aurelia Ink-Fingers, Illuminator-Curate of the House of Dibella… and the Dragonborn.”

“She’s good with massage,” Brynjolf added.

Etienne managed a laugh. “So you keep on telling people!”

“Tell me what happened at the Embassy. If I’d known…” Aurelia sat down across from him and Brynjolf took the other seat.

“They’d taken Etienne already. That’s how they learned about Esbern,” Brynjolf told her grimly. “Thank the old gods that Rustem and Veezara of the Brotherhood were able to lend a hand in our raid.”

Aurelia said something most unsuitable for a priest, which drew some laughter from the Thieves. “You keep on talkin’ dirty and I might have to fight Brynjolf for ya!” Delvin called out.

“You came second to a dildo. If I want an orgasm, I’ll visit Bryn again or borrow one of Vex’s toys,” was her ribald reply.

“I missed more than I realised,” Etienne said ruefully. “But… Gissur lured me to Solitude with the promise of a job. Next thing I know, I’m bagged and tagged in Elenwen’s private playpen. What kind of sick bitch keeps her quarters next to an interrogation chamber?”

“Elenwen daughter of Naarifin,” Aurelia said flatly. “I know more about her than I like. If you wish to stop at any time, tell me.”

“Gissur? Son of a bitch. He better be halfway to Alinor before I get my hands on him,” Brynjolf promised in a low deadly tone.

Etienne didn’t stop talking, not even after he’d been led to an alcove with a bed and given the promised massage by the Dragonborn. The golden chimes of Restoration magic rang around them, piercing the gloom of the Ragged Flagon, and his scar tissue loosened enough that… well, he wouldn’t be burglarising anything but he could use his hands to pick locks and pockets alike. Assuming he didn’t decide to take the severance pay Brynjolf offered and opened a tavern in his native Daggerfall.

For the first time since his capture and even after his rescue, Etienne dared to hope he might heal somewhat from this.

“So, how does a Dibellan become Dragonborn?” he asked after the words had run dry. Aurelia was somewhere around his knees now, repairing tendons as best she could. Maybe he’d take his pay and go to Danica Pure-Spring to be fully healed, if it was possible.

“The gods’ warped sense of humour,” she said wryly. “There are goats with more offensive capability than I possess, though the ability to breathe fire or punch someone with my Voice helps even up the odds.”

Etienne refrained from asking if she absorbed dragon souls like a succubus. Somehow he didn’t think she’d be amused.

“Well, lass, we can tell you the Thalmor are baffled as to the return of the dragons,” Brynjolf told Aurelia. “There’s even arguments on whether they should let you succeed or let Alduin win because it’s the end of the world. Why the Thalmor would want the world to end is beyond me.”

“There’s a group of Thalmor who believes we’re god-souls trapped on the mortal plane by the lies of Lorkhan/Shor and so by ending the world, they’re freeing us all,” Aurelia answered, shaking her head. “What they seem to miss is that the gods allowed themselves to be diminished to create the world. It’s sheer arrogance that the Thalmor believe they know better than the gods, even their Auriel.”

“We can’t let them end the world!” Etienne burst out. “It’s… the world.”

“Aye, lad.” Brynjolf sighed. “But there’s more. Ulfric… The man is, was…”

“You found information on him?” Aurelia asked quietly.

“Aye. I almost feel sorry for the man. Then I remember his wife killing my mother.” Brynjolf held up his hand as Aurelia opened her mouth. “I don’t hold you or even your brothers responsible, lass.”

“Do you want to give the proof to me?” Aurelia suggested gently. “The Stormcloaks are doing quite well now in the civil war and I believe the Legion will retreat soon. If word gets out about Ulfric, the only winners are the Thalmor.”

“I’ll give it to your Da. He’s technically paid for it.” Brynjolf sighed again. “What frustrates me is the Reach will get more of the same under Ulfric, only now the Silver-Bloods will be Jarls and have literal power of life and death over the Reachfolk. They’re worse than the Black-Briars, truly.”

“Maybe not.” Aurelia’s expression was now veiled. “We shall see what Dibella and Her Sibyl have to say about the matter.”

Etienne sat up since the healing massage seemed to have ended. “You aren’t the Sibyl?”

“Hardly. Dragons may have some understanding of the ebb and flow of time, but true prophecy is a gift from the gods – or the Daedric Princes.” Aurelia wiped her hands on a rag. “I can’t promise a free Reach but I can promise no Silver-Blood will be Jarl. Bryn, have you considered going into politics?”

“No thanks, lass. The pay might be better but the profession’s rife with dishonesty.”

Aurelia snickered. “Better an honest Thief than a politician?”

“Exactly.” Brynjolf pushed away from his wall. “I’ll get the paperwork we stole from the Thalmor for you, lass.”

“Thank you.” Aurelia smiled at Brynjolf.

When the Day Master was gone, Etienne studied the Dragonborn. “I owe you,” he told her. “You didn’t have to heal me.”

“The shoe was on the other foot. You saved the last Blades loremaster in the world.” Aurelia leaned against the wall of the alcove and sighed. “What will you do with your life now? I’ve healed what I can, but you won’t be breaking into houses any time soon.”

“I don’t know,” Etienne admitted. “I was thinking of maybe opening a tavern or something. Brynjolf’s promised me some… severance pay, I suppose. Mercer pitched a fit, but the other Masters went over him like a tsunami.”

“I was going to see if I could hire you to assist Esbern for the next few months. Brynjolf told me you’d been friends with the old man and well… the only other surviving Blade is a conniving, manipulating cow who holds vows about as sacred as I do my nail parings.” Aurelia sighed again. “I think the Blades are done, but losing Esbern’s knowledge would be a great shame. I can’t promise safety but I can promise a part in saving the world. When it’s over, I’ll build you a tavern myself if I must.”

“I could do that.” Etienne flexed his hands. They worked again. “I’m a little rusty with my magic though…”

“Esbern’s a formidable mage in his own right, I’m hoping to hire Marcurio again, and Delphine’s a competent fighter – and I know a couple offensive Shouts. If all goes to plan, however, we won’t be fighting with the Forsworn.”

“We’ll see.” Etienne managed a smile. “Let’s go save the world.”


	32. Smart for a Nord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Pumping out chapters because I’m stuck at home with healing feet.

“Missing apprentices, stolen books, necromancers running amok… Mirabelle, this doesn’t make the College look good to Skyrim – or anywhere else for that matter.” Bjarni Ulfricsson folded his arms. “Academic laissez-faire is one thing, but a disorganised shitshow masquerading as an educational institution is another!”

_An intelligent Nord is a dangerous novelty,_ Mirabelle Ervine thought ruefully as she inclined her head in acknowledgement of Bjarni’s complaint. The boy – no, young man – had more understanding of practical politics and bureaucracy than nearly any Jarl in Skyrim and a good many of the Stewards! For the son of a populist leader like Ulfric Stormcloak and a ruthless revolutionary like Sigdrifa Stormsword, it was both a dangerous thing and a very great miracle. Bjarni could hold his own in some of the lesser courts in High Rock… and probably a few of the greater. He was even moderately gifted in sorcery – by Breton standards. By Nord standards, if it wasn’t for Onmund’s sheer magical genius, he’d be the prize apprentice of the College and a shining example for all others.

“Savos prefers to let the students sort these problems out,” she admitted quietly. “Normally, we’d have asked you to leave – but a Thane who is at least moderately familiar with magic is too good a chance to pass up, particularly since the Psijics have spoken to you directly. We are apolitical.”

“Not while Ancano is here,” Bjarni countered. “Let me throw him from the bridge. I’m fairly sure despite their inflated egos, Thalmor haven’t mastered the power of flight yet.”

Mirabelle allowed herself a sharp laugh. “If Faralda and Enthir didn’t have family in the Aldmeri Dominion, I’d issue a statement expressing shock at the deplorable violence of the native Nords towards diplomatic envoys but understanding at the extreme provocation. Sadly…”

“Aye.” The young Nord sighed explosively. “I can tell you Savos is playing his cards close to his chest. There’s more to this ‘Eye of Magnus’ business than meets the… well, eye. If you’ll forgive the pun. That was what the Psijics were warning me about. It reeks of Aedric energy. Maybe it was part of the reason why the snow elves tried to wipe out the Atmorani.”

“You got that from a few scraps of parchment?” Mirabelle asked in some surprise.

“You Bretons seem to persist in thinking Nords unlettered, uncouth barbarians with little more than oral histories to our name,” Bjarni said dryly. “I’m a _Jarl’s son_ , Mirabelle. My father was trained as a Greybeard and I know Shieldmaidens like my mother considered knowledge a weapon. I’m fluent in Dunmeri, Old Atmoran and Dovahzul – Dragonish for you heathens – with conversational capacity in Jel, Ta’agra, Yokudan and Old Breton, and I can even swear a bit in Altmeris. I know the common history of three provinces besides Skyrim, some basic theology and even Apprentice-level magical theory in Illusion, Destruction and Alteration.”

Mirabelle flushed. “I stand corrected… and I apologise, Thane.”

“Accepted. Most people assume big Nord equals stupid Nord.” Bjarni tilted his head. “I’m not ‘Skyrim belongs to the Nords’. The Talos I worship was the unifier of Tamriel, not the blood-soaked warlord or the wicked tyrant. I just want everyone to pull their weight and be treated equally under the law.”

“Talos _was_ all of those things,” Mirabelle pointed out.

“Oh aye. But I’m minded of something my sister – the Dragonborn – told a Stormcloak commander. She said, ‘the gods are beyond our understanding in their entirety’. So I focus on the aspect I understand and trust it is enough.” He cracked a wry smile. “You’d like her. She’s a Dibellan scribe.”

“Aurelia Ink-Fingers’ prowess is known in the academic community,” Mirabelle told him. “Her treatises are works of art.”

“So I’ve been told.” Bjarni folded his arms again. “You should leave the College and introduce yourself to the good folks of Winterhold. The chasm between you all is more than literal.”

“I have my hands full with running the College!”

“Then resign and get a Master Wizard and Archmage who will work with the people of Skyrim instead of remaining in splendid isolation.” Bjarni smiled slightly. “That ‘pull your weight’ applies to the College too.”

…

“Were they meant to explode? Because they exploded and I nearly became Bjarni flambé in the bloody Breton style!”

J’zargo’s ears flattened in embarrassment. “J’zargo had thought he’d sorted that problem out.”

Bjarni’s temper fled as quickly as it had risen. The Nord was somewhat mercurial in mood but otherwise tolerable. “Maybe we should send them to the Imperials as a gift.”

“J’zargo was going to gift them to Ancano.”

The Stormcloak grinned. “Throw in a few for Elenwen and I’ll pay for it.”

They trudged across the bridge to the village of Winterhold. Now J’zargo had no trouble with the guards because he associated with a Thane. Bjarni was a very shrewd politician. Not as intelligent as one of the fairest of races but not an idiot either. If he were a real Apprentice, J’zargo might almost see him as a potential rival. Alas, only Onmund was a real challenge when it came to Destruction. Brelyna delved into Schools J’zargo did not care for, so she was no rival at all.

J’zargo sighed. The College had no politics but it was a very boring place to study.

“Did you hear there’s Synodic researchers at Mzulft in Eastmarch?” Onmund said once they were past the gates. “Led by Decimius Paratus.”

“Paratus is a fool, even by Cyrod standards,” J’zargo said disgustedly. “A connected one, though.”

Bjarni’s mouth tightened. “They’re Imperial loyalists. Would the College object if I investigated this?”

“Only if they all die in mysterious circumstances,” Brelyna assured him. “Mzulft’s full of Falmer and dwarven automatons, so…”

“Heh. You three want to come along? Mirabelle’s refusing to meet with the Jarl and Savos is hiding something. If I have a research team of College mages with me, it’s more, ah, diplomatic.”

J’zargo nodded. “There are many small valuable things in dwarven ruins.”

“I owe you, so I’ll come,” Onmund told Bjarni.

“I have some familiarity with dwarven ruins as a former student of Master Neloth, so count me in,” Brelyna said eagerly.

“Good. I’ll set things up with Suvaris and Faryl. I know where Mzulft is, so I’ll stop off at Windhelm and collect a few soldiers. This kind of thing, the more, the merrier.”

J’zargo was pleased to let it be so. Plenty of Nords between him and traps.

Khajiit was sensible, after all.


	33. Journey to Markarth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and mentions of war crimes, genocide, imprisonment, torture and religious conflict. Head-canon for the inside of the Temple of Dibella and their robes because those brown monk’s robes are butt-ugly.

The carriage trip to Markarth was probably the longest journey of Aurelia’s life, in both distance and the dilation of time experienced when one was forced to sit next to an unhappy person. Delphine’s sulks and passive-aggressiveness were unbecoming of an experienced Blade her age and she found herself longing to throw her and Julius Martin into the Imperial City Arena to let them fight it out. The tickets sold would probably solve several financial crises.

After a session under Danica’s experienced hands, most of Etienne’s injuries were healed, though he would always walk with a limp and had several visible scars. The former Thief seemed afire with holy zeal, assisting Esbern wherever necessary and soaking up the old man’s dragonlore fervently.

For Esbern’s part, he seemed happy to have someone who’d listen to his rambling about dragons. Farengar back in Whiterun had been his last student, when he lived at the College until the arrival of a Thalmor agent named Ancano. When Aurelia told the Stormcloak commander of Whiterun about a Thalmor at Winterhold, Hjornskar told her Bjarni was already on it and to worry about the dragons.

The carriage was left alone until they crossed a bridge near a mine the driver later called Kolskeggr. Two Forsworn threw ice spikes that were Warded by Aurelia, then promptly died to Esbern’s Flame Atronachs. “That wasn’t supposed to happen!” the driver protested. “The Forsworn are supposed to leave the carriages alone.”

“Do they have somewhere we can register complaints?” Aurelia asked as she scanned the grey-green hills of the Reach.

“No. But it’s supposed to be understood.”

“Political shifts can happen even within the Forsworn,” Esbern noted. “Finding the nearest redoubt and clearing it out should leave the appropriate message.”

Aurelia had forgotten he’d been a Silver-Blood before being sent to the Order of Talos as a toddler.

“No. Use Clairvoyance to find their friends. But we’re not killing civilians,” she ordered softly.

“Talos should have wiped them out,” Delphine muttered.

“ _I’m_ not Talos.”

“No, you’re a-“ Delphine bit her lip. “You don’t have the conviction to do what must be done to defeat Alduin.”

“You know nothing of who I am or what I can do. Genocide and wholesale massacres just aren’t to my taste.”

Esbern determined the Forsworn were in Kolskeggr Mine under the command of a Briarheart. Aurelia inhaled slowly and exhaled explosively. “Etienne, stay here with the carriage. If we don’t return by sunset, hightail it to Markarth.”

They returned just before sunset. Esbern’s magical capacity hadn’t been reduced by a decade of living in Riften’s sewers, Delphine had kept herself in shape over the past twenty years, and Aurelia’s Shouts knocked the Briarheart arse over head and her Telekinesis tore its briar out. No wonder the Forsworn had tried to take over the place; it was a gold mine with enough veins to supply a small Temple of Dibella with ecclesiastical jewellery for years. When Delphine went to palm some of the gold ingots, Aurelia’s control over her temper snapped.

“We’re not stealing from them, dammit!”

“We need money,” Delphine said flatly. “Just because you’re used to everything being supplied for you-“

“I’ve been living on alms since coming to Skyrim,” Aurelia told her icily. “You have enough capacity to work as an adventurer until we can go to the Karthspire. There are things I must do in Markarth first, including attending the Temple of Dibella.”

“Delphine,” Esbern said wearily. “Aurelia is a _priestess_. It makes sense she wishes to consult with her Divine’s Sibyl. There’s enough coin on the Forsworn to cover a few days at the inn… and if things haven’t changed, the Jarl’s court has a bounty on briars.”

_When_ Esbern _is the reasonable one,_ Aurelia thought ruefully.

The owners of Kolskeggr Mine had fled to the nearest safe place, the iron Left-Hand mine, and were happy to reward them with some gold. “I’ll let the strongholds know you’re to be trusted,” the Orc owner told them.

“Thank you,” Aurelia said quietly.

They overnighted in Left-Hand Mine and travelled to Markarth the next morning, the carriage driver thoroughly unsettled by the Forsworn attacking him. Not three steps into the city, a Breton tried to assassinate a Niben-woman, only Aurelia’s Unrelenting Force knocking the woman free of the back-stab. The Forsworn agent died swiftly under the guard’s blades… but then Aurelia was told it was none of her concern.

_Something is rotten in the state of Markarth,_ she thought grimly.

“Esbern,” she said softly. “I want you to approach the Silver-Bloods. I’ve heard they’re up there in corruption with the Black-Briars but they’re your kin. I need to know what’s going on here.”

“I was going to anyway. Thongvor’s a good lad, even if Thonar’s a little shifty,” the Blade said quietly.

“Delphine, ask at the Jarl’s court about the route to Karthspire. Etienne, book us rooms at the inn.” Aurelia wiped her hands on her hips as the red-haired Cyrod woman approached her. “I’ll be at the Temple of Dibella until dawn, at least. There’s a lot going on.”

“Let me guess, you’ll be practicing the Dibellan Arts?” Delphine asked snidely.

“If I were to, that’s none of your damn business. Maybe you can kill some time by finding another husband to commit adultery with.” Aurelia smiled grimly as the Blade’s eyes narrowed.

Etienne glanced between them both. “I’m missing something here.”

“I’ll fill you in later,” Esbern promised with a sigh. “May you find some guidance from the Sibyl, Aurelia.”

“Thanks, I’ll need it,” Aurelia said dryly.

The Cyrod woman pressed a silver and emerald necklace, much like the one Madesi had given her, into Aurelia’s hands while babbling thanks. It took a few minutes to extract herself and find the path to the Temple that overlooked Markarth.

The young Breton woman tending the Shrine had the rosy-fair complexion that Aurelia was beginning to understand seemed to be a sign of Reach blood. Here, the novices seemed to wear a simple cowled robe of undyed ivory goat’s wool and an Amulet of Dibella with sandals on their feet. “I'm sorry, the Temple of Dibella is closed. You can receive your blessing, if you wish, but the other sisters are in seclusion.”

“Even to a Dibellan from the Great Chapel in Anvil?” Aurelia asked quietly.

The girl looked up, her eyes widening. “Curate! Forgive me, the senior sisters and Mother Hamal have been shut up for weeks and…”

“I get it. You’ve been telling the laity the same thing for so long it’s become rote.” Aurelia smiled wryly. “I’m guessing they’re briefing the new Sibyl?”

The novice’s expression grew grim. “Trying to find her. She’s been taken by Forsworn.”

“Dibella damn them,” Aurelia said softly.

“I know. We’ve been trying to find a member of the laity who is both competent and trustworthy. Markarth’s a keg of Direnni Fire awaiting for the first spark and…” The novice bit her lip. “If word gets out we don’t have the Sibyl’s guidance…”

“All is not lost.” Aurelia drew herself up. “ _I_ am the Dragonborn. I’ve got a mage and a competent fighter in my employ. We will rescue her.”

The novice burst into tears and Aurelia realised how bad Markarth’s corruption truly ran.


	34. Righteous Vengeance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of rape/non-con, torture, imprisonment, child death, war crimes and genocide.

Aurelia’s eyes opened.

It was dark and dank, moisture dripping from a stone ceiling nearby and the musty odour of stale air permeating everything. Her robes and Amulet were gone, replaced by tattered rags. She was bruised and cut but otherwise unmolested. The guards who took her in the Shrine of Talos must have feared Dibella’s wrath too much to rape her.

“Easy there,” said a rough but sympathetic voice as she sat up. “You’re in my cell. Most of the Forsworn know not to lay hands on a priestess but there’s those who don’t care.”

“Madanach,” she rasped as callused hands steadied her. “My… grandmother’s cousin?”

“My father and Catriona’s mother were paternal half-siblings, yes,” confirmed the King in Rags. “I’m surprised you know, daughter of Sigdrifa.”

She accepted a cup of water from him and drank deeply. “Thank you. I met Catriona at Glenmoril when the Companions sought a cure for the beast blood.”

“Yes. Word of the Dibellan Dragonborn has reached even Cidhna Mine.” Madanach sighed as he went back to his chair at the table. By prison standards, this was palatial. “I’m sorry you got caught in the conspiracy. I’d been hoping… well. What I hoped for doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“When Senna told me of the murders and sent me to Eltrys, I wasn’t expecting to be stymied by both sides.” Aurelia finished the cup of water and shifted on the bed. “Are Delphine, Esbern and Etienne here too?”

“No. My sources tell me they weren’t expecting you until dawn. You investigate swiftly, girl.” There was a perverse pride in Madanach’s tone. “Even the Blades can’t storm Cidhna Mine.”

“No.” Aurelia inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “But there’s no lock that can hold me. Catriona asked me to get the Sibyl to support better treatment of the Reachfolk… and from what I’ve heard, some of your clans have gone rogue. Someone stole both a consecrated statue of Dibella and the girl who will be the Sibyl from Karthwasten. I was investigating _that_ when I got pulled into _this_.”

_“What?”_ Madanach’s voice rose a full octave. “You’re certain?”

“Fjotra of Karthwasten. A Forsworn raid on the town took her, the statue from a passing caravan, and Kolskeggr Mine. Mother Hamal is a skilled Illusionist and clairvoyant. Now, the Silver-Bloods – barring Esbern – are trying to use it to remove Ainethach as hetman of the town.” Aurelia performed a long, slow stretch before gathering in her magicka to heal herself. “Catriona told me Dibella was the goddess of righteous vengeance among the Reachfolk. I’m of a mind to deliver some to the Silver-Bloods… and to Oblivion with what my mother might think.”

“Normally, to offer my assistance, I would expect you to become Forsworn in truth by murdering an enemy of our people,” Madanach said grimly. “I ask instead that you turn the key for me. Until a new king walks Red Eagle’s path, _I_ am Ard Ri in this place and I will brook no disrespect of the gods… not even the Thief-God Talos.”

“Free passage and access to the Akaviri Temple at Karthspire for myself and my people,” Aurelia said immediately. “Once the Sibyl is rescued and consulted, I must go there. Alduin’s Wall holds the key – and Esbern Silver-Blood’s the only one who can decipher it properly, I’m afraid.”

“But if I were to kill the rest of the family?” Madanach asked with dreadful eagerness.

“They shall reap what they have sown.” Aurelia stood up carefully. “What my mother and stepfather did was wrong, Madanach.”

“Of course it was!” the King snapped. Then his tone softened slightly. “I don’t blame you or even the boys for it. We had an agent in Windhelm tell me that Bjarni was sickened for months afterwards and even Egil was troubled by it. Maybe there’s some hope there.”

He rose to his feet. “Let me have a word with Borkul before you work your dragonish magic. Some people will need to be removed before it’s safe to leave.”

…

Aurelia returned at dawn… on the heels of an avenging Forsworn warband that burst from Cidhna Mine, painting Markarth’s streets red to match the dawn sky above. “Don’t intervene,” she ordered Delphine tersely as the Blade went for her dai-katana. “We need to get to Karthwasten, then whichever fool redoubt decided to steal the Sibyl. Madanach will clear the path.”

“Are you as insane as the Madgoddess?” Delphine demanded in a tone that made Esbern wince. He almost missed the sewers. It was quiet there and Etienne was always happy to talk about dragons.

“The Silver-Bloods had me thrown in prison for investigating some murders,” was Aurelia’s curt answer. “Get ready to move. I want to be gone in fifteen minutes.”

Delphine swore but went to rouse Etienne and collect their gear.

“You’re the last of the Silver-Bloods now. Madanach spared you because I needed you,” Aurelia told Esbern quietly. “After this, you need to leave the Reach and never return. His… tolerance… only goes so far.”

Esbern shook his head. “I can’t believe you released him. He’s killed hundreds!”

“So has my mother and I’m not hearing you calling for her to be imprisoned.”

Delphine and a yawning Etienne arrived before Esbern had to answer that statement.

They arrived at Karthwasten by midmorning to find several Forsworn looting the bodies of mercenaries in good steel armour while a fur-clad Breton with an impressive facial hair was assuring another tattooed Reachman all would be well.

“Forgive the interruption, Ard Ri, but I need to speak to Fjotra’s family,” Aurelia told Madanach.

“She’s at Broken Towers Redoubt and believe me, that damnfool Briarheart’s going to wish his Matriarch had never made him,” the King in Rags answered grimly before turning to a lithe Breton woman with tattoos and a crest of blondish-brown hair. “Kaie, accompany your cousin. I want to know who’s guilty in that Redoubt before I pass judgement, but Cormac’s to be executed.”

“Kaie!” Aurelia’s voice warmed. “A long way from Glenmoril.”

“Aurelia.” Kaie’s voice was low and sweet; there was a definite resemblance in the line of the jaw and cant of the eyebrows. “We should find you a proper Reach name.”

“Do you mind travelling with Blades?” Aurelia asked her, as if she valued Kaie’s presence more than theirs. Esbern conceded that in Delphine’s case, she was right to do so.

“We acknowledge the Thief-God’s divinity,” Kaie said grudgingly. “Do you vouch for them?”

“Esbern’s loyal and Delphine knows the alternative is a lot worse. Etienne’s come along as Esbern’s apprentice loremaster, I suppose. I have plans for the dragonlore of the Akaviri.” Aurelia rubbed the back of her neck. “The knowledge shouldn’t be lost because the keepers lost their way.”

“You trust this…?” Delphine hissed.

“I trust my _cousin_. Aside from Bjarni and Egil, the Reach side of the family is the only lot hasn’t done me wrong.” Yes, there was barely contained anger in Aurelia’s voice. “The last Dragonborn to come through here did so much wrong… with the help of the Blades. Let us finally do something right.”

Esbern had never seen anyone grind their teeth until he observed Delphine in that moment.

But he understood why Aurelia was Dragonborn now. Not because of her martial prowess or her magical skill or even her bloodline.

It was because she was meant to set right what Talos had put wrong.


	35. The Heart of Dibella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment and child abuse with mentions of human sacrifice, implied rape/non-con, war crimes, genocide and religious conflict.

“The Ard Ri is free once more,” Kaie said calmly as one of Cormac’s female followers raised her bow warningly. “By his order, you are commanded to stand down or suffer the consequences for blasphemy, sacrilege and treason.”

The woman raised her chin haughtily. “We of the midlands clans do not recognise the authority of the mongrelised southern clans that almost led us to our doom. Cormac will rise as the new High King with a Sibyl and Dibella’s favour to his hand.”

“If Dibella’s on his side, why has a Curate of the Temple been dispatched to rescue the Sibyl?” Aurelia asked in the low, soothing, persuasive tones of one skilled in negotiation. “You’re on the verge of receiving some divine vengeance, child. I strongly suggest you reconsider your allegiances.”

She bit her lip but stood her ground. “Cormac is the most ardent follower of Dibella in existence and no Southron priestess will convince me otherwise.”

“Then in the name of Madanach mac Feredach, I sentence you to death,” Kaie said softly before gesturing with one hand. A Frost Atronach rose behind the sentry and impaled her on one of its spike-limbs before she could do no more than widen her eyes.

“Are we seriously going to go through this every time we meet one of the Forsworn here?” Kaie overheard Delphine ask Esbern irritably.

“Perhaps not,” Aurelia said quietly. Her hands glowed with magicka. “Kaie, I can amplify your voice. If everyone can hear your commands, it might convince the less fanatical Forsworn to surrender or flee.”

“Do it.”

A glow like the edge of twilight surrounded Kaie as she raised her voice. **_“In the name of Madanach, Ard Ri of the Reach, you are commanded to surrender or be executed for blasphemy, sacrilege and treason.”_**

Even the nearby hills rang with the power of Kaie’s voice.

“Of course, that removes any hope for stealth,” Aurelia observed as she cancelled the spell.

The doors opened and several young scared women emerged. Some of them were barely old enough to pass their adulthood rites and Kaie’s bones began to burn with a deep abiding rage. “We surrender,” one of them said meekly. “Cormac… He’s talking about sacrificing us to Dibella.”

“Esbern, Delphine, ready yourselves for combat,” Aurelia ordered in a low clear voice. “Etienne, make sure the women have enough to eat and drink. This Cormac is running what sounds like an aberrant cult that revolves around sex and sacrifice. It’s a pity I don’t have some Knights of the Lily here; they’re our militant order.”

“We can deal with it,” Kaie assured her cousin. “This blasphemy ends today.”

Most of the cultists surrendered when they saw Kaie and Aurelia accompanied by a formidable warrior and Nord mage but a few fought… and died. All of them were female, which boded ill for Cormac’s intentions. The poor Sibyl must be terrified beyond measure.

Eventually, they reached the top room of the tower, where a young Nord girl cowered in a cell as a Briarheart anointed a Shrine of Dibella in blood. “Kaie mac Fereda,” Cormac said as he turned. “I was hoping for a sacrifice of royal blood. Dibella has brought you to me.”

“No, She has not,” Aurelia said icily. “Do you wish to be shriven before being executed?”

Cormac snarled, firebolts streaming from his hands, and Aurelia barely had enough time to breathe “Feim” before becoming a ghost untouched by the flames. Esbern Conjured two Frost Atronachs who closed in on the Briarheart and Delphine simply powered through his subsequent Flame Cloak spell to strike at him with a katana. Kaie used Icy Spear to impale his briar and hamper his ability to defend himself.

In the battle that followed, Aurelia wisely focused on healing as the other three beat Cormac into the ground. He’d been an old Briarheart, which made him deadly, but Kaie was willing to concede the Blades were _very_ good at killing. Good enough, in fact, that she hoped Aurelia took them back to the lowlands after the Karthspire.

He died and before he’d even breathed his last, Aurelia was by the prison door and unlocking it with a touch of her fingers to free the Sibyl. “Fjotra,” she said gently. “Are you alright?”

The little girl peered up at her. “Is it true what they said? I am touched by the gods?”

“You’re going to be the Sibyl of Dibella,” Aurelia answered with a deep bow of her head.

“I've heard stories about the wonders of the great Temple in Markarth. But I never dreamed that I would even get to see it. I am honoured to be called for this duty. Please, lead on,” the girl said with unchildlike gravity. Kaie had seen the old Sibyl once and barely remembered the one, an Altmer, before her who’d died in the Markarth Incident. The touch of the goddess was already upon her.

“Then close your eyes, Most Holy,” Aurelia said softly. “Soon we will be in clean air again.”

Delphine and Esbern pragmatically looted the redoubt before joining them outside. “Now can we go to Karthspire?” the female Blade demanded.

“Not until Fjotra’s invested and confirmed as Sibyl. I _know_ what every delay costs the heroes of Sovngarde,” Aurelia told them. “But I must see this duty through.”

**_“Daughter.”_** Fjotra’s girlish voice deepened into the warm tones of the woman she would become.

“Most Beloved and Beautiful,” Aurelia breathed as she fell to her knees. Kaie did the same, gesturing to the Blades, the cultists and Etienne to follow suit.

**_“You were ever meant to be Dragonborn. That was why the High Prelate confirmed your entrance into the House instead of letting you languish in the Imperial Workhouse,”_** the Sibyl continued. **_“Repair what has been broken. Bring together what has been sundered. Set free the ‘prisoned, heal the wounded, restore the betrayed.”_**

“As You will,” the Dragonborn said in an awed tone.

**_“Kaie mac Fereda. The world is not as it was in the dawn of days. You and Argis the Bulwark must unite the clans and your claims. To you, the path of Red Eagle; to him, the path of sword and snow. Nord and Breton, united. Be your children Jarls or High Kings, it matters not. But be ready for the golden wave that hangs over us all.”_**

Kaie bowed until her forehead touched the dust. “Aye, Most Beloved and Beautiful.”

**_“Esbern Silver-Blood. Pass on your knowledge to Etienne Rarnis. You will have peace for the rest of your days. Appreciate it, for the Blades are no more.”_**

“As You command.” Esbern managed a shaky bow and Etienne’s was a thing of courtly grace.

**_“Delphine Revanche.”_** Dibella’s tone had hardened. **_“You have turned your back on beauty and love, grace and friendship for the sake of power and ambition you cloaked in the name of Talos. You and the one you most hate are not… unlike. Put up your blade, return to the Sleeping Giant, or be judged in the end. You have time to repent. Use it wisely or be denied Heaven’s Reach Temple.”_**

“All I’ve done has been for Talos and the world,” Delphine said tightly and defiantly.

“That’s what my mother says,” Aurelia observed softly.

**_“Children of the Reach. You have suffered and sorrowed. No more. Do not forget the Right-Hand Gods, for We made this world you live in. Find power in art, in love, in friendship. Be true to yourselves and each other.”_**

A murmuring sprung up among the cultists, for even they could see the shine of divinity on Fjotra’s face.

**_“Dragonborn, do not delay. Alduin’s Wall has the key… but the Greybeards the lock. Twice you shall stand against Alduin. Take only those who are steadfast in their faith. Find those who are lost in the mists of Sovngarde. And remember, love_ is** **_the point.”_**

Aurelia buried her face in her hands but she nodded her assent.

**_“Then be blessed and beloved, all of you.”_**

Once again, Fjotra was but a girl.

Kaie allowed herself a shudder of emotion too deep to articulate. The Sibyl had been direct. She knew what to do.

“We’ll return Fjotra to the Temple,” Aurelia said as she rose to her feet. “Then go straight to Karthspire. Hopefully, we’ll be back in the Pale within the week.”

“In better times, you should come visit and learn more about Reach culture,” Kaie told her. “You still need a proper Reach name instead of some heathen Southron one.”

Aurelia chuckled. “Here’s to hoping Alduin will leave enough of me to do so. Dibella with you, Kaie.”

“And you.”


	36. The Dragonfly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

Aurelia clenched her fists and crossed her wrists together as two Forsworn emerged from the mists of the valley at the foot of the Karthspire. Esbern and Etienne followed suit, then Delphine did so reluctantly. She was regretting bringing the Breton along. She should have left her with the Dark Brotherhood.

“Greetings, Priestess of Dibella,” said the younger of the sentries with a mixture of respect and wariness. “Do you seek free passage?”

“Only to the Akaviri temple that crowns Karthspire,” Aurelia told him. “I am Aurelia mac Catriona, called Ink-Fingers in the lowlands, and with me are Esbern and Delphine of the Blades, and Etienne Rarnis.”

The older sentry sighed explosively. “I need to take you to Matriarch Kaleen. This is beyond my responsibility.”

Kaleen, like Catriona, was a Hagraven but clearly of Breton stock because of her fine bones and lack of height. “Priestess,” she greeted with a polite nod. “Madanach’s messenger arrived this morning. You move faster than anticipated.”

“Time is of the essence,” Aurelia said quietly. “I need… maybe three days at most.”

“If it takes me three days to translate Alduin’s Wall, I’ve gone senile,” Esbern announced.

“There’s probably supplementary materials,” Aurelia told him before turning back to Kaleen. “I have some spices from the lowlands as a gift to the clan for your hospitality.”

“You’re a good lass. I didn’t know one of Catriona’s sons had lived long enough to sire a daughter.” Kaleen’s eyebrow was raised.

“The, uh, female get lied about her previous marriage to marry Ulfric Stormcloak,” Aurelia said, trying to remember how Madanach had spoken of Sigdrifa. “I’m… from that union.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Kaleen coughed awkwardly as some of the nearby Forsworn began to mutter. “We’ll… just put you down as an unacknowledged child of the Lost Valley Clan then. For lineage records.”

“Understood, Matriarch-“

The familiar cry of a dragon rang out across the sky.

“Get into the caves!” snapped Kaleen as she called fire to her hand. “How many times must we kill that bastard thing?”

“Only once more, now I’m here,” Aurelia said with a sigh.

“Battlemages, bring the beast to earth while I bless the warriors’ bows!” Esbern ordered. “There’s an old Akaviri blessing that’ll put some bite into them!”

Aurelia didn’t know if dragons kept records but this one would probably go down in draconic history as one of the biggest idiots to ever exist by attacking a working redoubt full of Forsworn mages, archers, a Hagraven and two Briarhearts. By the time it ploughed into the valley floor with an almighty splash of mud and water, it was three-quarters dead. Delphine shoved aside everyone to plunge her dai-katana into its head viciously until it stopped screaming.

Once Aurelia had absorbed its soul, the entire Karth valley was silent in shock and awe.

“I need to know that spell,” Kaleen said shakily.

Aurelia shook her head. “It’s no spell. It’s the dragon-blood, awoken by Akatosh’s will. I’m Dragonborn… but I’m not like Talos, I swear.”

“If you were, we’d be dead,” one of Kaleen’s Briarhearts said bluntly. “So Ulfric’s Dragonborn then?”

“No. He’s a Tongue. One who’s strayed far from the Way of the Voice, but still a Tongue.” Aurelia pushed her hair back from her face. “I already know more Shouts than he does. Most Tongues only learn three at the most… and he left High Hrothgar halfway through his training.”

“Two is more than enough when it comes to him,” the Briarheart said grimly.

“I know,” Aurelia said softly. “I’m not him.”

“Seamus, enough,” Kaleen said wearily. “Etain’s not like that.”

“Etain?” Aurelia asked softly.

“’Dragonfly’.” Kaleen smiled wryly. “You’re a bit smaller and prettier than that pile of bones behind you.”

“I… thank you.” Aurelia bowed as she would to a senior priestess in the House of Dibella.

The actual entrance into Sky Haven Temple was anticlimactic after that, involving a simple puzzle to lower a bridge and an ancient blood-seal to raise the bust of Reman Cyrodiil that guarded its front door. Kaleen and Seamus came along, much to Esbern and Delphine’s displeasure, and gasped to see the ancient carved frieze that could only be Alduin’s Wall.

Esbern worked on a translation, Etienne serving as his scribe, as Delphine paced around like a caged sabre cat. Aurelia, Kaleen and Seamus explored the old living quarters behind the common room and found Akaviri artefacts worth their weight in gold.

“Some of my ancestors and maybe some of yours lived here,” Aurelia said softly. “Sky Haven Temple was always meant to be the abode of the Dragonborn and the Dragonguard… or Blades… who served them. But… I’m a priestess of Dibella and the Blades are done.”

“So make it a Temple of Dibella,” Kaleen suggested. “We worship Her too and it’d be safer for us to come here than sneak into Markarth.”

“We could have a proper scriptorium and library,” Aurelia said wistfully. “The dragonlore could be preserved…”

“Is that why the lowlanders call you ‘Ink-Fingers’?” Seamus asked.

“One of the other novices threw it at me as an insult. Given I already bore my Cyrod clan-name of Aurelia – my birthname ‘Callaina’ was deemed too vain by the priestess who brought me to Anvil – I figured it was better than nothing,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “Being the Nord daughter of a traitor made me a social pariah in my novitiate.”

“I wish I could say the hill-clans will treat you better but… Catriona and Madanach failed and most of the midlands and northern clans blamed Catriona because she was a Nord,” Kaleen said with a sigh. “I was there. We were betrayed and… Catriona’s only failure was to freeze when her daughter stormed into Understone Keep.”

“So she was a better mother than mine,” Aurelia said softly.

“Not hard,” Kaleen said dryly. “But yes.”

The Hagraven patted her on the shoulder. “If Lost Valley won’t recognise you, you can consider yourself a member of Holy Mountain Clan for your deeds today, Etain mac Catriona. You freed the Ard Ri and rescued the Sibyl of Dibella. That counts for something, even with the other clans.”

“Thank you.” Aurelia sighed. “I better see what Esbern has to tell me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll be good news.”


	37. Are We Any Better?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, genocide, religious conflict and war crimes.
> 
> …

“Egil! Welcome to the family.” Galmar gave Njada a rough embrace before doing the same with Egil. “Your mother wasn’t happy about it. She had plans to wed you to a Jarl’s kinswoman.”

“Galmar, this may very well be the end of days. I’d rather spend them with one I love than in a political union,” the young man replied soberly. “I imagine she was less pleased that it was Aurelia who wed us in the Dibellan manner.”

Galmar sighed. “If your sister wasn’t the Dragonborn, your mother might very well send the Dark Brotherhood after her for what she did in the Reach. There’s rumours she helped free Madanach.”

“I get the impression the Dark Brotherhood was greatly damaged in the failed Penitus Oculatus raid,” Egil told him. “And the little Aurelia told me, from what she could surmise while trying to heal the survivors, it’s probably Rustem Aurelius running the show now.”

The huscarl grunted in acknowledgment. “Sigdrifa won’t take that well. On the way out, the Forsworn butchered every Silver-Blood they could get their hands on.”

“Having been to Markarth, I can’t fault them,” Njada said grimly. “I’m also not surprised Aurelia helped free Madanach either. The Silver-Bloods represented the worst aspects of Talos and whatever you can say about the King in Rags, he loves his country and people. To a Dibellan, that’d trump anything else – as I understand it from Aurelia’s own sermons.”

Galmar gave her a startled glance. When Njada had gone to Jorrvaskr, she’d been an ardent Stormcloak who believed wholly in the cause. Now… “You make him sound like Ulfric.”

“Is there really a difference? Both of them committed heinous actions for their land and people’s freedom,” Njada answered. Then she sighed. “I guess Kodlak’s lectures about everyone having their own honour stuck. I sound like Bjarni.”

“Speaking of my brother…” Egil said, changing the subject.

“Sorting out the College of Winterhold. He came through a couple days with some Apprentices because there’s a Synodic research team in Mzulft,” Galmar assured him. “Kai tells me that the churls and franklins of Winterhold might call for a Holdmoot to have Korir replaced with Bjarni as Jarl. You know Bjarni got himself made Thane, right?”

“No, I didn’t.” Egil was thoughtful for a moment. “Bjarni would make a great Jarl for Winterhold because, unless we decide to throw the College out, we really need someone there who can at least work with the mages.”

“That means we’d need to find someone for Falkreath because Dengeir’s finally slipped into senility,” Galmar said with a sigh.

“I’d suggest Ralof, but Gerdur’s already Jarl of Whiterun. We can’t concentrate power into the hands of a couple families.” Egil rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d actually suggest Nenya.”

“I don’t doubt Nenya’s loyalty but the rank and file would scream if an Altmer, even a half-Nord one, became a Jarl when we’re trying to free ourselves of the Empire,” Galmar said with another sigh.

“What about Solaf?” Njada suggested. “He’s loyal but he always got on with people of other races.”

“The general trader? That’s a good idea,” Galmar said approvingly.

“I’m glad to know Njada has some good ideas,” Ulfric said as he entered the great hall. “It might mollify Sigdrifa.”

“Talos coming down and making her His living Avatar wouldn’t make her happy,” Njada said tartly – and accurately.

“She’s had a lot of… disappointments… lately,” Ulfric said carefully. “I myself am not happy the Dragonborn chose to release a great enemy of the Stormcloaks.”

“The Silver-Bloods threw her into Cidhna Mine because she was investigating a series of murders that benefited them,” Ralof said from the door of the war room. “Dibella’s scriptures don’t say anything against letting a mutual enemy take care of those who’ve wronged you, Ulfric.”

Ulfric pinched the bridge of his nose. “It will make retaking the Reach much harder.”

“Or maybe we could support a candidate like Argis the Bulwark. He’s Nord, but he’s got ties to the hill-clans, and no one doubts his honour,” Njada suggested. “Ulfric, we can’t demand freedom of worship if we don’t give the Reachfolk the same respect. I’ve been to Markarth. The Forsworn might be horrible people but gods, the Silver-Bloods gave them plenty of cause.”

“Wergild for Karthwasten and the Nord dead of the Reach,” Egil added. “Most of their only crime was to cooperate with the people who took over the place.”

“I stand by my actions in Markarth,” Ulfric said flatly.

Egil’s mouth tightened. “Then following that line of reasoning, the Empire and Thalmor are justified in their actions because we are rebelling against them.”

Galmar didn’t know what to say. He could see the trail Egil took to reach his conclusion. Njada’s argument _was_ based in fact. Even Bjarni’s assertions that whether they liked it or not, Skyrim had more than Nords in it these days and to throw out the non-Nords would lead to disaster, had a point.

“Are you implying that I’m no better than Tullius or Elenwen?” Ulfric demanded in a low rumbling voice that quaked the Palace.

“If you don’t acknowledge your previous actions as problematic at best, outright atrocity at worst, would you be?” Egil countered.

“We believe in your cause, Ulfric. The Empire’s got to go,” Njada said softly. “But we have to accept that we haven’t done the best things in order to grow and be better than the Empire.”

Ulfric glanced to Galmar and Ralof. “I suppose you two agree?”

“I’ll concede they have a point,” Ralof agreed.

“If the non-Nords want to be treated as Nords, then they can start contributing like Nords to the cause,” Galmar said. “As for the rest of it, I’ll answer to Tsun when it’s over.”

Ulfric nodded slowly. “I will consider what has been said. But I will not allow the Reach to be free of Skyrim. And the Dragonborn had better be prepared to explain herself.”

“Careful, Father,” Egil said softly. “Because she might just do so… and I don’t think you or Mother would like that.”


	38. Serenity, Courage and Wisdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

Madanach sighed as Kaie reported the words of Dibella’s Sybil, as attested to by the survivors of Cormac’s cult. They made sense, given the political situation surrounding the Reach, but it stung to admit that a wholly free Reach was not likely to happen. “Give me the serenity to accept what I can’t change, the courage to change what I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” he murmured under his breath.

“You sound like Etain,” remarked Seamus, one of Kaleen’s Briarhearts, who’d come to Druadach Redoubt with news of the Dragonborn’s latest doings. She’d found her Wall, helped kill the dragon plaguing Karthspire Redoubt and been named as a member of Holy Mountain Clan by the Matriarch herself. “Dragonfly” was a fitting name for Catriona’s dragon-souled granddaughter.

“She’s a wise woman. Pity she’s related to some of the biggest scumbags in the lowlands,” Madanach told the Briarheart. “Has she left the Reach?”

“Aye. She needs to go to the monastery at the Mother-of-Winds to learn more about a Shout that might bring Alduin down,” Seamus answered. “The Blades went with her. Kaleen thinks we might be able to turn that Akaviri temple into a proper House of Dibella. Be safer for the Sibyl, at least. Etain seemed to like the idea.”

Madanach nodded with an explosive sigh. “The political situation in the lowlands?”

“Ulfric’s gaining ground. Whiterun and Hjaalmarch have given their allegiance to the Stormcloaks, rumour is that they’ve set their eyes on Falkreath, and Ulfric’s eldest boy is making grounds in Winterhold,” reported his spymaster Gwendolyn. Born of a Reach mother and a High Rock father, she often served as a travelling merchant – and spy – for the Forsworn. “Egil reportedly rebelled against his family and married his long-time sweetheart Njada Stonearm – who apparently received a lesson in humility from the Dragonborn.”

Kaie leaned against the wall of the cavern. “If we _must_ remain in Skyrim, it would go easier for all of us did the Butcher and his bride go to Sovngarde. Bjarni and Egil are… tolerable.”

“I see why Dibella decreed you walk Red Eagle’s path,” Madanach said proudly. “Give me a few weeks as Ard Ri, my girl, and I’ll set it in motion. That way you can protest in all innocence to the Storm-Bears that it wasn’t _you_ who ordered the deaths of their parents.”

Kaie inclined his head. “I need to speak to Argis anyway.”

Two days later, Madanach was seated across from the handsome, athletic Redguard with bright blue eyes and a bladed spear of dragonbone who was both the Listener and Aurelia’s father. No wonder the girl had a pragmatic streak if her father was an assassin. “I can pay in silver and gold,” he promised softly. “Suaranach and Kolskeggr answer to me.”

“If it was permitted, I’d do it for free,” Rustem observed in his low, sensuous baritone. “But… I would prefer to make it seem like a tragic accident. We don’t need a war with the Stormcloaks.”

“Ulfric’s got to go into battle sooner or later,” Madanach growled. “Sneak someone into his bodyguard and…”

“That might be too obvious. Lucky arrow’s more likely and explainable,” Rustem pointed out. “Sigdrifa? I’ve got something _special_ planned for her.”

“Ooh. You have me intrigued,” Madanach said with a grin.

“She won’t see Sovngarde.” Rustem suddenly laughed. “Given that Alduin feeds on the souls of heroes, Ulfric might wish he’d never gone if he gets trapped in the mists.”

Madanach allowed himself an evil laugh. “I could live with that.”

“As could I. Don’t hold a grudge against the man personally, but…” Rustem shrugged. “I don’t need silver or gold. I do want, however, a Sanctuary in Markarth and some assistance when Titus Mede comes to Skyrim.”

Madanach smiled. “I can get behind that.”

…

“Well, you must be pleased at getting paid for something you’d do for free,” Nazir drawled as he poured Rustem a flagon of ale. Instead of renovating Dawnstar Sanctuary beyond the basics, Rustem chose to upgrade Heljarchen Hall and make that his base instead. Caves had a certain cachet to them but a cave with a big black door depicting the Night Mother’s story was far from subtle. How long had the Penitus Oculatus sat on the knowledge of how to enter the Falkreath Sanctuary? Only Sithis knew and He wasn’t telling.

“I am,” Rustem admitted. “Any word from Esbern and the others?”

“Aurelia left Delphine behind in Whiterun,” reported Jenassa from where she nursed a cup of sujamma. “Esbern and Etienne went with her… and we could hear the yelling down here. Your daughter has a penetrating voice when she chooses to use it.”

“I don’t know who Arngeir is but he sounds like an idiot,” Nazir agreed amusedly.

“I think he’s the chief Greybeard or something. I know a dragon runs the whole show.” Rustem drank some ale. “The Ulfric and Sigdrifa jobs can stew until we’ve killed Mede. I suppose they deserve to die in a free Skyrim. Madanach’s already agreed to have his Hagravens cloak Solitude’s harbour in mist on the day we tell them too.”

“Nice,” Nazir said with a grin.

“Speaking of Mede, anything on Maro?”

“He’s sticking to Dragon Bridge and we decided to lay low for the moment,” Gabriella reported. “However, there’s a Stormcloak camp nearby and we were able to feed them some information. The Legion’s having a very bad time in Haafingar.”

“Good job. I want Mede to know his Empire, the one he betrayed so much to preserve, has crumbled before I shove Goldbrand down his throat,” Rustem said in a soft, deadly voice. “My only sorrow is that Irkand won’t get to see it.”

“He survived the raid. Your daughter was in town and able to assist the local Priest of Arkay,” Gabriella told him soberly. “Old Runil’s got him serving as a Priest of Arkay now because Irkand’s blind as a bat. Should we…?”

“No. Runil was one of the Thalmor’s best necromancers and he’s surrounded by corpses. I’d rather not provoke him,” Rustem said reluctantly. “But if Irkand leaves Falkreath, kill him.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Gabriella promised softly.

Rustem clapped his hands together. “So, how’s Veezara going on that job in Riften?”

A Listener’s work was never done.


	39. The Head That Wears the Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of war crimes, religious conflict and imprisonment.

“I understand that arcane concepts are beyond your understanding but it is your duty as citizens of the Empire to do as I command!” Decimius Paratus ordered shrilly. “I am a Senior Evoker of the Imperial Synod, under whose authority the College falls.”

Bjarni smiled and it wasn’t pretty. “You seem to have missed the fact that you’re in Eastmarch, which doesn’t recognise the Empire or any of its lackeys, and are facing three Apprentices of the College of Winterhold, which cordially invited the Synod to go fuck itself last time you paid a visit. Furthermore, I am Bjarni Ulfricsson, Thane of Winterhold and son of the Jarl of Windhelm. If you want to get into a political pissing match, _Cyrod_ , let me assure you I win here.”

_He’s not going to come quietly,_ Onmund thought as he cupped his hands loosely, ready to cast Conjure Frost Atronach or an Icy Spear – whichever seemed appropriate for the occasion. Beside him, J’zargo had already charged both hands with Fireball and Brelyna’s Flame Atronach danced restlessly beside her. All of them were much better mages now they’d come to the College… and been goaded by Bjarni to achieve more than they might have on their own.

“Are you simple?” Paratus said with the exaggerated tones of one speaking to an idiot. “I have authority over all four of you!”

“If the corpses outside this room you locked yourself in are anything to go by, you’re not worth a tinker’s damn as a leader or a mage,” Brelyna said icily. “Cooperate and you’ll see Cyrodiil again. If not… oh well, the Falmer got all of you.”

“Brelyna Maryon, heir of House Telvanni,” Bjarni said conversationally. “I believe the Great Houses of Morrowind told the Empire to go fuck themselves at the beginning of the Fourth Era – two hundred years ago, if you’re too stupid to count.”

Judging by the sudden sharp reek of urine, Paratus realised just how much danger he was in.

“The-the Oculory, it’s meant to find powerful magical artefacts we can use for the good of the Empire,” he babbled. “The first focusing crystal warped in the cold and-and…”

“Ah! A sidereal discernment array, probably based on principles of pre-Alessian Ayleid Merethic Era astronomy!” Brelyna said triumphantly. “Tel Vos has one. You just need to use minor frost and flame spells to align the mirror and acclimatise the crystal until the map is shown.”

“Those were words, but most of them made absolutely no sense,” Bjarni said wryly.

“It’s alright, Bjarni. For the sake of tact and diplomacy, I’ll forgive your limited education and understanding,” Brelyna said sweetly. “J’zargo, you’re our Destruction expert. Care to cast the spells?”

Paratus eyed the door but Onmund shook his head. “I wouldn’t do it. If Bjarni doesn’t get you, I will.”

J’zargo was as capable of finesse as he was a flashy fire spell and soon enough, the mirrors showed the blue-white outline of Skyrim… with a glaring burst of energy right where Winterhold was.

“You’ve… You’ve ruined it!” Paratus screamed.

“It worked perfectly. We know what’s going on.” Brelyna smiled slightly.

“Then I must accompany you to the College! Whatever magical artefact is there needs to be secured…” Paratus’ tone was wheedling. “I can get you Apprenticeships in the Synod. You can receive the finest magical training in Tamriel.”

“No,” Bjarni’s voice was firm.

“J’zargo was part of the Synod. _And_ the College of Whispers,” J’zargo said disgustedly. “Too much politics and not enough learning.”

Bjarni sighed and his expression became stony. Before Paratus could even cry out, the big warrior had parted his head from his shoulders with one blow of his enchanted steel axe. Wiping his weapon on the dead mage’s robes very carefully, he stepped delicately to a corner of the room and promptly threw up.

“The Synod can’t know about the Eye of Magnus,” he said harshly, wiping his mouth.

“You expect J’zargo to be concerned by you killing that idiot?” the Khajiit asked mildly. “He was getting ready to do it. After all, Brelyna promised he could leave if he cooperated, not the rest of us.”

“I wonder if this sort of decision led my parents to…” Bjarni shook his head. “We need to return to Winterhold. Ancano’s been around the Eye unsupervised for far too long.”

…

“Son of a bitch! Who the _fuck_ dropped the ball on this and let that cunt near the Eye?”

“Bjarni, while I understand and agree with the sentiment, Mirabelle and Savos are dead, the only artefact _I_ know of capable of breaking that barrier is in Labyrinthian, and the College defences won’t be able to contain Ancano forever,” Faralda told him grimly. “Tolfdir and I will hold the line. Evacuate Winterhold and Whistling Mine.”

He nodded. “Fine. Onmund, Brelyna, J’zargo – go to Labyrinthian and get this artefact. Arniel, Nirya, Enthir, Drevis, Urag, deal with those anomalies. Sergius, Colette, you’ll be evacuating with me. May the gods hold us in Their hands, because we’re going to need some divine fucking blessings.”

They retreated across the bridge and Drevis pulled out a gem from the gate, causing the bridge to… vanish. “Don’t ask me. It’s some form of permanent Telekinesis and Illusion the Atmorans set up. But it’ll buy us a little more time.”

Half the guard and Korir were already dead while Suvaris and Faryl were desperately battling some of the strange magical creatures. Bjarni roared and launched himself into the battle. He knew enough Alteration to dampen some of the magical effects; surely steel could do some damage to these things.

Two of them had him pinned down and were draining life and magicka from his body when a Ward formed between him and the anomalies. “IIZ!” Aurelia cried out, the wave of frost freezing them solid as her hands glowed golden.

“Get the townsfolk out to Whistling Mine!” Bjarni told his sister.

“They were the last two,” she said with a sigh. “I think a couple of the mages died.”

They had. Nirya and Arniel were sprawled out ungracefully on the bloodied snow, the other mages all showing signs of injuries. But aside from the dead guards and Korir, there were no more people in the street.

“Ancano. Thalmor. Massively powerful Aedric device,” Bjarni explained tersely. “I’ve sent mages after the one thing that can supposedly stop it. But there’s no getting past the College while Ancano controls the Eye of Magnus.”

“Then let us take the dead with us and retreat. I can use Unrelenting Force to blockade the path to the mine with a minor avalanche… and to clear it out again. I have that much control over my Voice, at least.” Her expression was one of mingled frustration and sorrow.

The dead were borne in honour to Whistling Mine, where Thaena broke down sobbing at the sight of Korir. “He died with a sword in his hand,” Bjarni said awkwardly.

“That means you’re Jarl now,” Birna said sombrely. “There’s no one else to take the Winter Throne.”

Bjarni had been considering dethroning Korir but he’d wanted it to be an honest fight, not… this. Suvaris and Faryl were huddled near the entrance, stark fear behind their dour expressions. Everyone else was looking at him like he was Talos come down from the heavens to save them all.

He took a deep shaky breath. “Does anyone know Alteration spells that can keep air sweet and water pure? I’m going to need a volunteer to go out and hunt some meat because I think we’ll be trapped here for three or four days, at least…”

Thaena wiped her eyes. “I’ll hunt… Jarl Bjarni. I was a Jarl’s wife. I know what to do.”

“I can call animals here,” Aurelia said softly. “A Shout. Thank Kynareth for every animal I call, as it’s a gift from Her, I believe. As for the Alteration spells, I’m familiar with them. I know a few more that are blessings of Dibella.”

Bjarni nodded. They would survive this. “Then praise be to Dibella. We’ll wait a few hours until we know those magical anomalies are dead…”

He understood his parents a little more today, for the head that wore the crown was heavy with burden.


	40. The Eye of Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Whether Aurelia likes it or not, she gets dragged into factional problems on a regular basis!

“We can’t trust that damn College!” Thaena complained as she gutted the snow bear Aurelia had called close to Whistling Mine with Animal Allegiance. Between the bear meat and the supplies they’d gathered when sneaking back into the deserted village, there should be enough food for four days, even for the two dozen people crowded into the mine. Spells and rituals used to enhance Dibella’s Temples were now turned to freshening the air, chasing away the musty cave-smell, amplifying the light of their meagre candles and lanterns, and preserving the little fresh food available at this season. Escaping into the fresh air and space of Winterhold’s snowfields had been a relief.

“It’s not going anywhere,” Aurelia told Korir’s widow. “And _I’m_ using magic to keep everything fresh and lit in there. Strictly speaking, the Thu’um is a kind of magic too – the oldest, most primal kind.”

“But you don’t deny this mess is the College’s fault?” Thaena asked pointedly.

“From what Bjarni told me, it’s the fault of two idiots suffering from a bad case of head-up-arse, the meddling of the Synod, and no one finding a way to neutralise Ancano before he became a danger,” Aurelia answered with a sigh. “More than that… we can only wait on the Apprentices’ return.”

Thaena scoffed as she pulled the skin from the corpse. “You have more faith in people than I do.”

“I’m a priestess. It’s part of the job.”

On their return to Whistling Mine, Bjarni was sitting down on the only chair in the main cave, giving the old balding mage and the older blonde woman equal glares. “We can play the blame game until the cows come home or we can set this matter aside until we reclaim Winterhold,” he ordered tersely. “But mark my words, Sergius – the College _will_ be answerable and contributing to Winterhold. The days of splendid isolation are over.”

“Even the Companions assist Whiterun in times of crisis,” pointed out the grey-haired man in clothing of good but old wool. “If the College wishes to receive the same privileges, it can perform the same duties.”

“Half of Winterhold’s problem is the rift between College and town – and I’m not referring to the chasm,” agreed the Dunmer womer – Suvaris, if Aurelia recalled correctly.

Bjarni ran his hands through his long sable hair. “How went the hunt?”

“The Dragonborn called us a snow bear,” Thaena said stiffly. “Its meat will be able to extend our supplies by a few days.”

“Winterhold is… eerie,” Aurelia said softly. “I’ve never seen such concentrated energy in one place, even at the time-wound at the top of the Throat of the World.”

“Time-wound?” One of the mages, the bookish Orc, raised his bushy grey eyebrows.

“I don’t know how to explain it. There… aren’t the words in Tamrielic, not from the Dovahzul – Dragonish – at least.” Aurelia spread her hands helplessly. “Dibella’s blessing gives me more eloquence than most but some things don’t translate well.”

“Oh, I was just going to say that time-wounds are something akin to a dragon break, except they’re on a smaller scale and generally related to the overt use of an Elder Scroll,” the Orc said with a grin. “Pity I couldn’t have brought _Ruminations_ with me. Septimus is mad as a loon but he’s the world’s expert on Elder Scrolls.”

“He’s alive then?” Aurelia asked. “Because guess what I need to see through the time-wound?”

“You’re joking.” That was Bjarni, his tone flat.

“No. Alduin’s Wall, carved by the Dragonguard of the Akaviri, told me that the Three Tongues used a special Shout to bring down the World-Eater,” Aurelia answered. “The Greybeards tell me that Dragonrend was so horrific that to use it is to scar your soul with the hate and anger of the Three Tongues forever. _Paarthurnax_ tells me that dragons can’t comprehend the meaning of the Shout, as it seems to be based in mortality and an ending.”

Bjarni grunted. “That’ll mean the word ‘joor’ – mortal – will be in it. As for what it implies… Well, Mother always told me-“

“’It wasn’t what you said, it’s how you said it’,” they said in weary unison.

“Exactly.” Bjarni managed a smile. “I’d rather try and figure out the Shout with you than see you meddle with an Elder Scroll.”

“Maybe so, but Paarthurnax says that’s what’ll it take.” Aurelia sighed and sat cross-legged against the wall. “So tell me exactly how you wound up here as Jarl.”

Two days later, the trio returned with an ornate mage’s staff that Aurelia recognised from her reading. “The Staff of Magnus,” she breathed.

“So Ancano’s idiot minion told us after we killed the Dragon Priest,” reported the young Nord man grimly. “Bjarni… It’s now or never.”

The Jarl rose to his feet. “Hopefully it’ll be something an axe to the head can mend-“

“No!” It was Suvaris who snapped at him. “This is too dangerous. Winterhold’s lost one Jarl. It can’t afford to lose another.”

“If you three focus on Ancano, I’ll focus on healing you,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “The stories say a Dragonborn can alter time and probability. I hope they’re right.”

Drevis and Enthir came with them to deactivate the College’s defences. “I suppose we’ll find Faralda and Tolfdir dead,” the latter said gruffly.

“Aren’t you a bundle of cheer and joy?” Drevis observed sarcastically.

The Staff of Magnus cut through all of the barriers that Ancano had raised in the central hall of the College. The mer was aglow with power from the huge rune-marked orb hovering in the centre of the room. “Whose idea was it to bring this thing here?” Aurelia hissed to the young Nord mage.

“Tolfdir’s,” muttered the youth.

“I’m guessing that Estormo failed,” Ancano said with a weary sigh. “Onmund, right?”

“You know my name,” grated the mage. “What happened to Faralda and Tolfdir?”

“I knocked them unconscious. When they awake in primordial divinity, they’ll thank me.” Ancano dry-washed his hands. “I’m _freeing_ us, my Nord friend. Just give me a few more hours.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that the Aedra knew what They were doing when They laid themselves into the bones of the earth?” Aurelia asked. “It’s presumptive to think that you know better than Them.”

“I’m guessing you must be the Dragonborn. Some of my kith were minded to stop you defeating Alduin, but the Akaviri texts were fairly explicit in their description of the world being regurgitated anew.” Ancano bowed slightly. “The power of the Eye of Magnus is beyond even your understanding, Aurelia Ink-Fingers. Or Aurelia Callaina, if you’d prefer.”

“Ink-Fingers is good,” Aurelia said. “But that the Staff has been found and I was spun out to face Alduin are fairly good signs the Aedra want this world to continue. Take yourself off the Wheel, Ancano. Hell, if you can, take all the Thalmor with you and let the rest of us enjoy Nirn.”

Ancano smiled wearily. “It would be incomparably selfish of me to do so.”

More anomalies appeared and raced towards Aurelia, but she Warded them off. While she and Onmund had been talking, Brelyna and J’zargo had been moving to flank the mer.

The metallic taste of ozone filled the air as Ancano opened the Eye repeatedly, only for Onmund to close it again once more with the Eye. Aurelia crept around to the crumpled forms of Faralda and Tolfdir, waking them up with Restoration magic. “We have the Staff!” she yelled at them.

Light and sound built into a crescendo as five mages poured all their power into attacking Ancano, the Eye opening and closing like a twitching eyelid. One final blast of sound/light/force drove them all into walls and for a while, Aurelia lost consciousness.

She awoke to the sallow face of Faralda, who helped her to her feet. “Tolfdir triggered Lightning Cloak and stepped into Ancano’s Warded sphere,” the womer said tersely. “Both of them are dead.”

“But the danger is not yet over,” observed the haughty, scholarly tones of an Altmer male.

“Psijics,” spat J’zargo. “Where have you been?”

“Holding the world together as Ancano tried to tear it asunder,” retorted the green-eyed Altmer in cream, maroon and gold robes. “The Eye must be taken for the good of all.”

Aurelia rubbed her aching head. “Great idea. Let’s petition Dibella. It’s just shiny enough to suit Her part of Aetherius.”

“I beg your pardon?” the Psijic asked in disbelief.

“If it’s too powerful for mortal hands, it makes sense to petition the Aedra,” Aurelia said wearily. “I’m Dragonborn. I’m a priestess of Dibella. It’s my job to set free that which was imprisoned. Like this Eye.”

“She has a point, Quaranir,” Onmund said soberly. “I know you’re honest and maybe some of your friends are too… but can you guarantee some future Ritemaster will be?”

Quaranir exchanged glances with the other three Psijics. “Kannemaro will have my head for this, but I don’t think we could stand against the Dragonborn _and_ the Staff of Magnus. We will raise the power if you petition the Aedra.”

Even after the crises of the past few weeks, Aurelia quickly fell into the same pattern of breathing and movement that begun the ritual of beseeching Dibella’s divine favour. _This is who we are. This is where we stand. This thing is too dangerous and too tempting for mortals. Take it into Your keeping until such a time as the world might need it-_

There was a sense of sunlight and the scent of lilies, warmth on the skin like the caress of summer’s wind and honey in her mouth.

**_“Of course,”_** Fjotra’s voice promised.

Then everything was gone and when Aurelia opened her eyes, only six people were standing in the room instead of nine.

“I’m to be the College’s new advisor,” Quaranir said, slightly chagrined. “Whoever becomes Arch-Mage…”

“Onmund,” Brelyna said with a sigh. “He’s a Nord and who’s winning the civil war again?”

“Bjarni would be the better leader but he’s the Jarl of Winterhold now,” Onmund said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure?”

“J’zargo is the better mage,” muttered the Khajiit. “But the Arch-Mage must oversee things and never has time to study. Better Onmund than J’zargo.”

“I have a feeling Skyrim’s as politically fraught as ever,” Quaranir observed.

“Hey, at least the next few centuries won’t be boring,” Onmund said wryly.

“I’d prefer they were,” the Psijic answered.

“That’s in the hands of the gods,” Aurelia said with a sigh of her own. “We’d better tell everyone it’s safe and prepare to send Tolfdir and the other dead off. Gods, why is it the rite I’m conducting so often these days is the funeral one?”


	41. Port After the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and sexual activity. Aurelia/Callaina is bisexual, but a combination of personal repression and social heteronormativity tends to make her lean towards heteroromantic relationships. Since Ink-Fingers is a lot healthier in that regards, she has no such problems.

Birna watched the Dragonborn rub her forehead wearily and wondered just how old she was. Her skin wasn’t as pale and flawless as one of the she-mages from the College but it wasn’t as weathered as a churl’s, though there were fresh freckles and a couple lines from squinting. She remembered the Great War, so she was probably in her early thirties at least, but at first blush she looked mid-twenties. Maybe Dibella gave Her clergy long youth or something. Aurelia certainly didn’t look like a prophesised hero of legend who could Shout a dragon from the sky.

Despite her weariness, she was kind to Ranmir, counselling him about his grief for Isabella. Through some arcane knowledge, she’d known Isabella had made it to Riften… and then when Arch-Mage Onmund scried the woman using the remembrance lock she’d given Ranmir, it had been discovered she was dead. It was sad but at least Ranmir knew she’d tried.

Jarl Bjarni was going over the books with Thaena, who’d decided to make herself the new Steward despite Bjarni having two very competent Dunmer servants. The way Suvaris hovered over him, Birna suspected the womer had feelings for the man. Dark elves crushed on heroes too, she supposed.

Faryl, Suvaris’ brother, was talking to Onmund about a magical greenhouse where he could grow crops from all around Tamriel, with the ‘Psijic’ Quaranir tendering his own viewpoint whether the other two wanted it or not. Altmer apparently used magic in growing things constantly and the tawny-skinned mer had been shocked when Aurelia knew a few spells he didn’t. Winterhold could become a lot more self-sufficient, maybe even a place for non-mages to visit, if they could grow exotic fruits, herbs and vegetables.

“I’ll think about it,” Ranmir said, setting his flagon aside.

“Start by paying your debt to Dagur and Haran,” Aurelia told him in her low sweet voice. “Wipe the slate clean for a fresh start.”

Birna sighed. There would go the last of her gold.

“He can pay it by chopping wood,” Haran said loudly after a glance at Birna. “Jarl Bjarni’s already said he wants those broken-down cottages removed.”

Birna swallowed a laugh at her brother’s crestfallen expression. He wasn’t a bad man, just lazy and depressed. Maybe now the priestess had spoken to him, it would light a fire in his belly.

Aurelia rose to her feet and stretched gracefully. This time Birna swallowed around a lump in her throat. There were three women in the Hold guard, Thaena and Haran here, and maybe some womer in the College – and none of them were interested. Birna had resigned herself to loneliness a long time ago but now and then, when a beautiful woman came into town, she wished it were otherwise.

It had never occurred to Birna that Dibellans might have funeral rites. The Hall of the Dead had been tended by Haran for years since the last priest died. Maybe decades. She and Birna were children then. But Aurelia had given Korir, the three dead mages (who’d imagine old Tolfdir would go to Sovngarde fighting an evil elf?) and the guards a farewell sermon and used her own Fire Shout to breathe the pyre alight. Assur and Eirid were still quiet, no longer the mischievous children they’d been. The College mightn’t be entirely responsible for what happened, but things had changed nonetheless.

“That snow bear skin’s tanning quite nicely,” Birna told the Dragonborn. “Those robes of yours can’t be comfortable in the snows outside, even if you’re a Nord.”

“I am a Nord – Bjarni’s my half-brother on the mother’s side – but yes, it _is_ a bit chilly up here,” Aurelia said warmly. “Why the Elder Scroll can’t be found somewhere much more comfortable like Stros M’kai is beyond me.”

“Because Moth Priests can’t drink,” Bjarni said amusedly. “Birna, put a proper brooch for that skin on my tab, will you?”

“Yes, my Jarl.” At least Bjarni didn’t demand the sun, moon and stars the way Korir had.

In Birna’s shop, Aurelia gasped at the finely carved mammoth tusks that adorned the walls. “My father’s work,” the merchant admitted. “When he was alive, they’d come from all along the coast to buy his scrimshaw.”

“If you could get those to Cyrodiil, High Rock or Hammerfell, you’d be a very rich woman,” Aurelia noted.

Birna laughed bitterly. “I can’t leave with Ranmir drinking up all the money.”

“He’s a grown man. But Bjarni has some ideas about bringing some prosperity to Winterhold. I think the challenge will do him and Suvaris good.”

“You noticed that too?” Birna asked ruefully.

“I’d be a poor priestess of Dibella if I didn’t,” she said wryly.

Birna sighed wistfully. “What is it like? You must have many lovers.”

“My day job is calligrapher and illuminator,” Aurelia told her. “Not all of us get around like Sanguine on a bender.”

Birna laughed. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“You prefer women and there doesn’t seem to be anyone of that persuasion around here but Faralda,” Aurelia said sympathetically. “You’re lonely and feel responsibility for everything, including your brother.”

Birna nodded as she closed her eyes. “Yes.”

“There are those who would judge someone for seeking company like a ship limping into port after a storm. Thankfully, none of them are here,” the Dragonborn said softly. “Birna – I’m scared too. I’m no great battlemage or iron-thewed warrior. I have to hire mercenaries or ask for help from the Jarl’s court or hope a few friends are around to kill dragons. Tomorrow, I must cross the ice and consult a madman on the possible location of an Elder Scroll, which I must read at the top of the Throat of the World, where Alduin is very likely to arrive because He will feel its influence along the time-web. And that won’t even be the final battle. That will take place in Sovngarde, and I don’t know if Shor will allow me to bring the heroes of Skyrim to the fight, no matter how dire the situation.”

“Go to Dawnstar and hire Onmund’s father to take you,” Birna advised, shaken by the stark fear in the Dragonborn’s voice. “No one knows the sea-ice better than him.”

“For that, I thank you.” Aurelia looked suddenly uncertain. “Would you mind if I stay tonight? To quote the Ninth Sibyl: ‘I swing like a shop’s sign – both ways’. None of the men are particularly interesting and…”

Birna blinked. “You want. To sleep. With me.”

“If we’re sleeping, I’ve lost my touch for the Dibellan Arts…” Aurelia bit her bottom lip. “Unless you don’t want…?”

The hours that followed were good ones and as Aurelia noted, there wasn’t a lot of sleeping. But eventually they did sleep and in the morning, after a sleepy shared breakfast, the Dragonborn caught the carriage to Winterhold.

Birna studied Faralda speculatively and received a slight smile in return. Maybe there was something worth cultivating in Winterhold after all.


	42. Waking Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, misogyny, slut-shaming and fantastic racism. If there’s a town quest, Aurelia finds herself dragged into it, lol.

“My son’s the Arch-Mage?” the weathered, gap-toothed, plain-faced fisherman in his horker-hide garments asked in disbelief. “Onmund?”

“There’s only one Onmund and he’s the Arch-Mage,” Aurelia assured him. “Him and Jarl Bjarni are working to revitalise Winterhold.”

“Might be worth relocating there,” suggested the younger version of Ragnar Broken-Tusk. “Between Skald being more useless than teats on a slaughterfish and these damned nightmares…”

“Maybe,” Ragnar conceded grudgingly. “Look, priestess, the trip out to Septimus’ outpost is no pleasure trip and I don’t think he’d appreciate the Dibellan Arts. He’s madder than a First Seed hare.”

“Believe me, I’d rather be chartering you for a trip to Stros M’kai. But I need to speak to Septimus. He might know something about the dragons.” Aurelia clasped her hands together. “I know it might sound unlikely, but I _am_ the Dragonborn.”

“Those rumours are true?” Onmund’s brother blurted. “Did you really fuck a dragon to death?”

“No! Dibella’s tits, what _is_ it about everyone thinking I’m here to fuck dragons?”

Ragnar gave his son a scathing glance. “I’m sorry about that. Ulfric gave the command that all true children of Skyrim assist you in defeating the World-Eater. You say you need to see that mad Cyrod, I’ll take you myself. But can it wait a day or so? I’m thinking of moving to Winterhold and we’ll need to pack up the family. Two horkers, one spear.”

Aurelia nodded, though she seethed with inward frustration. “I’m sure I’ll survive a day or two in Dawnstar.”

“Thankfully, outsiders seem immune to those damned nightmares,” Ragnar added as he turned away. “Hopefully they don’t follow us to Winterhold.”

Not an hour later, Aurelia was hearing about these nightmares from Erandur, the Priest of Mara who’d arrived in Dawnstar on the heels of them. A Dunmer with long iron-dark hair and a sorrowful gaze, there was something furtive in the way he tried to get someone to accompany him to the tower overlooking Dawnstar. Nightmares… They were generally the sphere of Vaermina, the Daedric Prince of dreams.

“What aren’t you telling people?” Aurelia asked point-blank when she caught him outside the Windpeak Inn. “This sort of thing sounds like Vaermina. I’d have thought a cleric of Mara would be exhorting the righteous to purge Dawnstar of her corruption, not lurking in conversations like a courtier trying to shift the blame to someone else.”

Erandur grimaced. “About two centuries ago, the Tower of the Dawn was called Nightcaller Temple, and it was home to a cult of Vaermina that decided to provoke a nearby Orcish stronghold – Mashog-Yar, or something like that. The Orcs invaded and…”

“You were one of the cultists who survived?” Aurelia asked, gentler than she expected.

“Something like that. I have… come back to set what was right. Mara has given me a ritual to banish the artefact causing these nightmares. I just need a non-judgmental sword-arm to get me through the Miasma.” Erandur sighed and shook his head. “I can’t mend the situation if I’m killed by some self-righteous Nord, Curate.”

“Are you fussy about the help? I… know someone who’s a good warrior but, well, he’s with the Dark Brotherhood.” Aurelia folded her arms. “I don’t think you have much choice in the matter.”

“I don’t. Mara forgives… and I don’t believe in casting stones.” Erandur gave her a sideways glance. “How is it a Priestess of Dibella knows someone in the Dark Brotherhood?”

“We’re related.”

A bespelled pigeon brought her father and an Argonian to Dawnstar the next day. “We really hadn’t paid attention to the nightmares here because I think we were protected,” Rustem observed. “My Argonian colleague is Veezara.”

“Shadowscale?” Aurelia asked curiously as she shook Veezara’s hand.

“The last. Though we might be able to start training more in Skyrim.” Veezara’s eyebrow ridges rose as he shook her hand. “A Priest of Mara needing our help to exorcise the place. The Night Mother must be laughing herself silly.”

“Mother’s a pragmatist. All things die… and since Vaermina’s thumbed her nose a few times at the Brotherhood, she’s not above teaching her errant stepdaughter a lesson in humility.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Veezara nodded to Rustem as Erandur joined them on the path to Nightcaller Temple. “Did the world really nearly end at Winterhold?”

“Ancano came closer to it than any other Thalmor,” Aurelia confirmed with a shudder. “Dibella’s taken the object in question back to Aetherius but I came very close to dying.”

“All That Is Not needs All That Is to exist,” Rustem said softly. “My daughter, if someone is throwing caltrops in your path, _tell me._ This world-skin won’t be swallowed by Alduin, not here and not now, while I have the power to stop it.”

“I seem to get dragged into these messes whether I like it or not,” Aurelia said ruefully.

“To the tower?” Erandur asked quietly. “Once the trap is… neutralised, the Orcs of Mashog-Yar will awaken.”

“That was Aurelia Northstar’s father’s stronghold!” Rustem exclaimed. “I know conversational Orcish. Let’s see if we can negotiate with them.”

Gaining entrance was fairly easy but in the end, they needed to consume a potion called the Dreamstride to deactivate the Miasma. Veezara, as the only non-priest in the group, took it and vanished, reappearing on the other side to remove the soul gem powering it. So far, everyone had been maddened by the Miasma and the Skull of Corruption. Perhaps now it would be different.

After executing the cultists when they wouldn’t stand down, Rustem cast Calm (Aurelia didn’t know he knew Illusion) on the Orcs of Mashog-Yar and spoke in Orcish. Aurelia wasn’t fluent in that language but the best-armoured of the lot said something back and so began an extended conversation.

“Tarlak gro-Mashog’s agreed to help us, to avenge his stronghold,” Rustem said afterwards. “He was Agol gro-Mashog’s father.”

“That would make him my four-times great-grandfather,” Aurelia noted.

“Yes,” Tarlak agreed in rough Tamrielic.

“Before you say anything stupid, my daughter’s dressed like that because she’s a wisewoman of Dibella,” Rustem added. “The Dunmer’s a priest of Mara who was one of the cultists in his youth, but is here to banish Vaermina’s evil artefact and atone for his actions.”

“We have no quarrels with Shor’s Wives,” Tarlak told him. “As for the dark elf, we shall see.”

After that, the fight was a curbstomp battle because the disoriented cultists were no match for enraged, battle-hardened Orcs. “Let them vent their spleen,” Rustem said when Erandur ventured the idea of offering a truce. “I don’t think you comprehend what they did to Mashog-Yar. They sent the women and children mad first, then drove Tarlak and his sons into a battle-fury that resulted in the civilians of the stronghold being killed. This was a death-raid to appease Malacath.”

“Oh,” Erandur said weakly.

They eventually reached the inner sanctum of Nightcaller Temple, where two High Priests awaited them armed with maces. “Casimir!” spat the Nord in anger. “You left us to die!”

“I know,” Erandur said sadly. “I’ve come to make it right. Hand over the Skull and you can leave in peace.”

“They need to die for what they did to Mashog-Yar!” Tarlak growled.

The Dunmer High Priest narrowed his eyes. “Casimir betrayed us all, Orc. Kill him and become Champion of Vaermina.”

“I am Erandur, Priest of Mara,” Erandur said sadly. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“First you leave us to die, then you betray us? Vaermina damn you!” raged the Nord.

“A… counter-bargain, if you will,” the Dunmer said, waving his colleague silent. “We have no quarrel with Dibella or Sithis. Let us deal with the Orc and the traitor, and we will take the Skull of Corruption and go somewhere else. Dawnstar won’t be plagued with nightmares and you can get on with what you were doing.”

From the expression on her father’s face, Rustem was sorely tempted and even Veezara looked thoughtful.

“Blood of my blood, you may not be Orcs but these bastards have betrayed us,” Tarlak said grimly. “Vaermina offers only lies, madness and emptiness.”

“He’s right,” Aurelia said softly. “Those who suffer nightmares because of the Skull are left… hollow, eventually bereft of hope and creativity.”

The Nord’s eyes narrowed. “You know too much, Dibellan. Your death will be quick.”

“So will yours. YOL TOOR!” Aurelia’s Fire Breath Shout engulfed them both, but the Dunmer was more startled than harmed by the flames. Sadly for him, he had no power to stop Tarlak’s warhammer from crushing his skull, followed by his burning, screaming friend.

“Make a man a fire, he’s warm for the night. Set him on fire, he’s warm for the rest of his life,” Veezara joked grimly.

Erandur was too busy praying to Mara and banishing the Skull to pay much attention to the others.

“Vaermina was offering me the Skull,” Rustem said in half-apology. “Satakal knows it would make my life a lot easier but…”

“It drains both you and others of their capacity to dream, which is a direct blasphemy against Dibella,” Aurelia told him, grimacing at the stench of burned flesh. Fire Breath was useful but…

There was a burst of light and the Skull was gone.

“It’s done,” Tarlak grated, leaning on his warhammer. “Malacath’s strength, I didn’t expect to survive this.”

“Maybe you should go to Orsinium. It’s now between Hammerfell and Skyrim,” Rustem suggested. “Another one of Agol’s descendants rules Cracked Tusk Keep. He’s named for you, I think.”

“There can be only one Chief in the stronghold…” Tarlak sighed. “But I’ll lead what’s left of the boys south. Perhaps we’ll find a way to appease Malacath.”

“I’ve heard the Chief of Largashbur’s a sickly sort who’s offended Malacath somehow,” Rustem said. “Try Riften and then cut through Falkreath. Just watch out for Nords.”

“And he’s still Chief?” Tarlak raised his warhammer. “Your gods with you, blood of my blood.”

“Farewell.”

Erandur rejoined them. “So it is finished. I was planning to retire here and spend the rest of my days serving Mara but… I don’t think that’s enough.”

“Go to Winterhold. There’s no priest at all and it’s suffered several deaths,” Aurelia told him. “You could divide your time between Winterhold and the Pale.”

His expression brightened. “I suppose I could. I… Thank you. I see why you are the Dragonborn.”

He left the room and Rustem sighed explosively. “He got a lot of people killed.”

“So he did. But he’s repentant and if Mara’s forgiven him, who am I to argue with Her?”


	43. Sit Back and Have a Cup of Mead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

“Did you get the answers you wanted?” Ragnar asked as she climbed back into the boat. Most of his family had relocated to Winterhold during the exorcism of Nightcaller Temple and from what she’d heard, Bjarni welcomed them with open arms. That left Septimus and his mad ravings for her. And mad he was, obviously touched by Hermaeus Mora.

“No, they weren’t the answers I wanted,” Aurelia said glumly. “I have to find the hidden depths of a Dwemer ruin called Alftand.”

“Pity you weren’t here a few months ago. I ferried an expedition there.” Ragnar sighed gustily. “You want mages, Winterhold’s the place. You want mercenaries, Windhelm’s your best bet.”

“Take me back to Dawnstar. I’m going to Whiterun. I’ll see what the Companions will charge me.” Aurelia buried her face in her hands and sighed.

“You get what you pay for.”

As luck would have it, the carriage to Whiterun arrived in Dawnstar about three hours after she disembarked from there. It was a quieter ride than she expected to Whiterun and as the sun rose over the plains, she reached the three-tiered city where it all began.

Aurelia entered Jorrvaskr just as breakfast was being served. There were new faces in the hall; the lanky blond Battle-Born and his Grey-Mane lover, a handsome young redhead with a Reacher’s rosy-fair complexion, and an old grizzled mercenary with scars on his hands. “Take a seat and get some food!” Farkas ordered from Kodlak’s old seat. “We’ve been hearing all sorts of tales from the merchants.”

“Thanks,” Aurelia said gratefully, sitting at the end of the table across from Vilkas, who gave her a curt nod. “How’d everything go?”

“Kodlak is in Sovngarde,” the lean warrior answered, breaking a loaf of steaming bread in half. “Njada came back to receive her Skyforge Steel sword before returning to Windhelm. Jon and Olfina were so taken with the romance of her wedding to Egil they eloped to Riften, then joined the Companions. The redhead’s Erik, from Rorikstead, and Belrand is a spellsword from Haafingar.”

“I’m more of a tutor than a whelp,” Belrand said cheerfully.

“What about you?” Aela asked Aurelia from her end of the table.

“Let’s see… since I last saw you, I married Njada and Egil, was imprisoned in Cidhna Mine by the Silver-Bloods, helped free Madanach, located and rescued the Sibyl of Dibella, found Alduin’s Wall, aided in stopping a Thalmor from ending the world and exorcised a Daedric artefact in Dawnstar,” Aurelia answered, accepting half the loaf from Vilkas. “Now I need to brave a dwarven ruin called Alftand in order to find an Elder Scroll, read it at the top of the Throat of the World, and hope Alduin doesn’t kill me before I learn the Shout that can defeat Him.”

“Alftand… That’s near Dawnstar,” Vilkas observed, buttering his bread. “Two ‘adventurers’ tried to hire us to accompany them, but the whole thing reeked.”

Aurelia exhaled explosively. “So I can’t hire you to accompany me?”

“We didn’t say that. But a Dwemer ruin… That’s usually a four-warrior job,” Skjor said after a swig of ale.

“I travelled with Herebane once to a Dwemer ruin,” Belrand said suddenly. “Me, Vilkas and… hmm… maybe that mage Marcurio? He’s a smartass but he’s a good battlemage.”

“Vilkas is our loremaster, so he must remain,” Skjor said. “I was thinking me, Aela and you. This requires more than ordinary skill.”

Aurelia arched her eyebrows at Aela, glancing at Belrand, and she nodded. So he’d been given the beast blood – or was already a werewolf before joining.

“I have enough magic and combat Shouts to play the part of a mage,” she assured them. “Now, here’s the fun part: how much will this cost me? As always, I’ve got a variety of jewellery and gems.”

“Fifteen hundred and we’ll value goods at their buying price, not their selling price,” Skjor said with a smile. “If you were just asking for one or two of us, we’d do it for free. But a bond must be left with the Harbinger in case things go wrong.”

So began the examination of Aurelia’s share of loot, Eorlund examining each gem and gaud minutely, and once more Aurelia was a pauper. But Farkas assured her she was welcome to stay with the Companions for free whenever and however long she wanted. That was something.

“You’ll make it back from whatever we collect in Alftand,” Belrand assured her cheerfully.

“I just want this bloody Elder Scroll,” Aurelia admitted wearily. “I understand how my ancestor Aurelia Northstar must have felt… and she had the Blades to help her.”

“We will succeed,” Skjor said calmly. “Until we leave, you might as well sit back and have a cup of mead. Alftand promises to be… interesting.”


	44. The Alftand Expedition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, misogyny and fantastic racism. Fun fact: this version of Aurelia/Callaina has a weaker version of Voice of the Emperor from her Colovian ancestry, at the cost of less resistance to frost.

**_“_ ** **_STOP IT.”_ **

The voice, low and sweet, rang out through the room in such a compelling tone that Sulla lowered his weapon and Umana stepped back. Of all the things they’d seen and experienced in Alftand during their ill-fated expedition, a compact brunette in Dibellan robes accompanied by three warriors, one of them wearing the wolf-emblazoned plate of a Companion, interrupting the fight was… unexpected.

“Most of your colleagues are dead, either by paranoia or at the hands of the Falmer,” the priestess continued, incongruous in her well-made but somewhat travel-worn robes among the copper and stone of Dwemer architecture. “What in the name of the Blessed and Beloved has you two trying to kill each other on the cusp of leaving this place?”

Sulla scowled. “Umana wants all the glory and power for herself. How’d a whore like yourself get through all those dangers, anyway?”

The priestess rolled her blue-green eyes heavenwards. “Did you suffer one too many blows to the head during your Legion days, soldier? If you know anything about the House of Dibella, you’d know I wear the robes of a Curate of the Gilded Page. I’m a scholar and scribe, not a whore – not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Watch your tongue!” snapped the middle-aged warrior in Companion’s armour. “You speak to the Dragonborn.”

“Sure, sure, and she’s a lost Septim too,” sneered Sulla. “Well, none of you will get the glory and the power-“

“FUS RO DAH!” If the priestess’ voice had been compelling before, now it literally threw Sulla back with such force that he was blasted into dust, leaving only his material goods behind.

Umana was oddly relieved to see her throw up in shock and horror afterwards. Even the Companion(s) looked perturbed.

“I can see why you’re reluctant to use a full Shout,” observed the oldest warrior, who wore light leather to the middle-aged warrior’s wolf-plate and the redhead’s skimpy attire.

“I didn’t know that would happen,” the Dibellan said, shaken.

“He wouldn’t have stood down,” Umana said with a sigh. “I think you saved my life. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The Dibellan smiled weakly. “You can take whatever you want and go. We’ve got a particular device and destination in mind.”

Umana raised her brows. “You can turn a man into dust with your voice and you still need something from here?”

“Have you ever heard of Alduin World-Eater?” the priestess asked softly. “I believe some Redguards believe Him to be an aspect of Satakal, but He’s… the destructive aspect of the universe. He’s returned before His time and it’s my job to stop Him.”

“By the gods of Yokuda-that-was,” Umana breathed.

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I need something the Dwemer hid. It won’t do you any good-“

“Lady, I’m not going to pick a fight with someone who can literally kill a man with her voice,” Umana said dryly. “I would, however, like to offer my sword until you retrieve this device. I owe you my life and well… there’s plenty of treasure to go around.”

She glanced at the other three and the wolf-armoured warrior nodded. “Any one of us can kill her if she tries to betray us,” he said pragmatically. “Who knows what guards are set about an Elder Scroll?”

That was how Umana joined a quest to save the world from the draconic aspect of Satakal’s hunger. They entered a subterranean realm that Aela, the redhead, dubbed ‘Blackreach’ and fought automatons, more Falmer and their creatures, and even a _dragon_ that appeared when Aurelia’s terrible Shout knocked the huge orange sun-like orb in the centre of this place.

“JOOR!” she roared, a burst of purple light striking the beast and bringing it down to the ground.

That was when Umana discovered that Aurelia’s three friends were werewolves who could tear apart a dragon with their bare claws. No wonder she hadn’t been worried about traipsing through Alftand. If only Sulla had come up with the cash to pay them upfront! Everyone else would have been alive.

When the battle was over, Aurelia spat to the side in distaste after absorbing the power of the dragon. “Now I understand why Dragonrend was considered so horrific and alien to the dragons. ‘Joor’ means ‘mortal’. I shudder to think of what the other Words of that Shout are.”

“The Three Tongues made a weapon of their own mortality,” remarked Belrand, the spellsword.

“And wrapped their hate of dragons around it,” Aurelia agreed grimly. “It’s going to be a struggle to divorce the Shout from its meaning.”

“You can do it,” Skjor assured her.

“I fought a dragon like Sura-HoonDing!” Umana declared excitedly.

“There’s plenty more in Skyrim because Alduin’s resurrecting them,” Belrand said.

Aurelia shook her head and led them to where the Elder Scroll was kept.

It took some pressing of buttons and the square device Aurelia carried, but eventually the green-glass egg-shaped container descended and opened up to reveal a softly glowing golden scroll-case. The Dibellan took it and slung it across her back.

They went back to Alftand with even more loot and Umana found herself with a heavy pack of goods that could set her up for life in Hammerfell. Aurelia had given everyone final rites, even Sulla’s pile of ashes, before they emerged somewhere back in the Pale, judging by the snow and sea down the hill.

“It’s back to High Hrothgar for me,” Aurelia said slowly. “When I read the Scroll, Alduin or one of his chief lieutenants will come to kill me because I will have the weapon needed to defeat them.”

“So it’ll be the final fight then?” Skjor asked.

“I wish. Esbern told me that Alduin’s Wall predicted the fight would be in Sovngarde.” Aurelia’s smile was crooked. “Probably the only way I’d wind up there, because I’m not likely to die in battle.”

Belrand stroked his chin. “I say we drop this loot off at Jorrvaskr and accompany her. Voice or not, she’s going to need warriors to defeat Alduin at High Hrothgar. You know Greybeards can’t fight.”

“They can, but they won’t,” Aurelia corrected.

Umana cleared her throat. “Can I come with you to Jorrvaskr, at least? I’m… not sure I can retire. Not after what went wrong. I want to make sure that the expedition’s families are taken care of.”

“You’d be more than welcome to become a whelp,” Skjor agreed. “You have a sense of honour and you’re a competent warrior.”

“Thank you,” Umana said softly.

That was how Umana became a hero of Jorrvaskr and played her part in saving the world. Her later exploits, including helping Cirroc Ansei hunt down both the infamous traitor Iman al-Suda and the fallen Tu’whaccan priestess Lu’ah al-Skaven, would become the stuff of legends.

It was a good ending to a tale that began in tragedy.


	45. A Reckoning Has Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, suicide, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“Winterhold has a competent Jarl in Bjarni and the Thalmor were thwarted with the aid of the Dragonborn, who went on to assist a Priest of Mara to exorcise the Tower of the Dawn and end the nightmares plaguing the Pale,” reported Ralof to the Stormcloak high command. “Frorkmar Banner-Torn received a message from Aurelia saying that she had located a means to learn the Shout by which the Three Tongues cast down Alduin and she goes now to the Throat of the World with some Companions to protect her from the dragons’ inevitable retaliation. She asks that we pray to the gods, for she will need every blessing she can get.”

“So it begins,” Ulfric remarked. “We will not be idle in the meantime. I have decided to take Haafingar instead of the Reach; with the resources of eight Holds, even the Forsworn will fall before us.”

“You didn’t hear? Argis the Bulwark married some Forsworn princess,” Ralof said quietly. “He became Jarl by gutting Igmund like a trout and she apparently was crowned the Forsworn High Chief by their forsaken rites.”

Egil stirred. “We have an opportunity to reach out to them, if I may use the pun.”

“You just did,” Njada said with a roll of her eyes. “If we want to keep the Reach, Ulfric, we’re going to have to compromise.”

“I stand by my actions!” the Jarl snapped.

“And look how it turned out,” Egil retorted. “For the love of the gods, Father, you and Mother need to swallow your pride and admit that _you were wrong_.”

“It would take Talos Himself to tell me what I did was wrong,” Sigdrifa said icily. “And I don’t think He-“

“Fine. We need to pray to Him anyway. Let’s ask the Hero-God,” Egil interrupted. “The Aedra do answer our prayers if we are sincere enough and the need is great. We face the end of an Era, if not the world. Let us seek the advice of the gods.”

Ralof swallowed a laugh at the expression on the Stormsword’s face. She often forgot Egil had been trained as a Priest of Stendarr.

“Aye,” Galmar rumbled. “Failing a reply, we can always proceed to take Haafingar and starve out the Reach later.”

Jora and Lortheim seemed unsurprised to see Ulfric’s high command enter the Temple of Talos, but the middle-aged Nord with silvering dark hair, a neatly pointed beard and the rosy-fair complexion of a Reacher was a stranger. Sigdrifa gasped and fell to her knees in a clatter of alloyed ebony armour.

“Amazing,” drawled the stranger. “You _can_ show a little humility.”

Egil was the next to kneel, followed by a wide-eyed Njada. Ralof decided that he should probably join them and soon enough, the entire party was kneeling before the Shrine of Talos. When he glanced up at the statue… he realised it was empty.

“Talos,” Ulfric said in a hushed, profoundly awed tone.

“Yes,” answered the god. “Or I was, I suppose. Now I’m simply Hjalti.”

“You’re mortal,” Egil said suddenly.

“I am now. The Thalmor managed that much at Winterhold.” Talos… no, Hjalti… grimaced. “We have a lot to atone for and you can start with the Reach. Apologise, pay some damned wergild and get them on our side. They’re willing to work with Egil and Bjarni, at least.”

“If you’re no longer a god, why should we obey you?” Sigdrifa demanded, rising to her feet.

“Because if you want to see Sovngarde, you’ll do as I say!” snapped Hjalti. “There’s a reckoning on its way, Stormsword. Neither you, I nor Ulfric can change that. But we can prepare for it.”

“You’re taking your demotion well,” Galmar finally said.

“I could have been torn out of the world-weave and shredded into nothingness by the Eye of Magnus,” Hjalti said dryly. “Dibella was kind enough to give me a second chance as a mortal. If you’re wondering why Aurelia was guided to the House instead of the Benevolence… Well, Mara’s reactive. Dibella is proactive and a good deal more pragmatic than Her kinswoman.”

The once-god suddenly smiled. “Now it’s time to forget what I’ve told you. I’m just Hjalti, a survivor of the Blades and priest of Talos who took to the mountains and came down when he heard about the dragons.”

Ralof blinked suddenly. What happened?

“Steady on, Ralof,” observed Hjalti as he helped the blond to his feet. “Not many mortals can bear the touch of a god.”

Ralof nodded, rubbing his aching head. Everyone else, even Jora and Lortheim, seemed to be suffering similarly to him.

“Egil,” Ulfric said with a wince. “I want you to negotiate with the Reach. We can’t lose those silver mines and they won’t be able to stand alone against the Empire if they go it alone.”

“Yes, Father,” Egil agreed. “What about you?”

Ulfric’s expression was stern. “We will march on Haafingar.”

…

**_“Rustem, it’s time. Mede’s in Skyrim.”_ **

“About damned time,” Rustem said as he got out of bed. “It’s showtime, people! Our leader’s arrived in Solitude!”

“Finally,” Delphine said with grim glee. Rustem was only a little surprised to see her return to Heljarchen Hall, but when Aurelia had told him what went on in the Reach, it made sense. Delphine was too shaped by years of hiding and paranoia to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, she was wrong.

Rustem didn’t care. His job was to kill Mede.

Eola, their Forsworn liaison and an unrepentant worshipper of Namira, alerted the Hagravens. Solitude Harbour was going to be nice and foggy, the sailors and even most of the Penitus Oculatus would flee because of Fear spells, and their nice new enchanted gloves and boots would allow them to walk on water… and climb like a spider. Old Forsworn trick, Eola claimed.

It took them three days to reach Solitude Harbour. Delphine, Rustem, Gabriella and Veezara went, as to leave a firm core of Brothers behind to continue if it all went wrong. On the way, they stopped by the pier to drown the pacing Maro. Veezara took great glee in killing him.

Much to Rustem’s surprise, the ship was empty until they reached Mede’s personal quarters.

“You might as well come in,” Titus Mede said wearily. “The reckoning has come and we must play our parts on destiny’s stage.”

“Save me the intellectual bullshit,” Rustem said as he opened the door.

“Rustem. To think I thought Irkand the more deadlier of you two.” Mede actually laughed. “But I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

“You generally were,” Delphine said grimly.

“Delphine Revanche. You’re certainly living up to your surname.” Mede gave her a wry gaze. “This won’t make your life any less empty. I hear the Dragonborn told you the Blades were dead. Aurelia, at least, knows her place in the scheme of things.”

Delphine snarled and lunged for the Emperor. There was a flash and suddenly she was a torch, screaming in sheer agony.

“I was hoping that’d be you,” Mede said to Rustem in chagrin.

One swipe of Rustem’s naginata ended Delphine’s pain. “I’m going to shove Goldbrand down your throat,” he promised darkly. “You have a minute to say your final prayers, you old cunt.”

“I won’t give you the pleasure.” Mede’s voice was hoarse and he was sweating. “An excellent poison. I’d recommend it but… well. I’m sure you don’t need any help in that department.”

“You son of a bitch-!”

But Mede had already slumped over, twitching. By the time Veezara reached his side, he was dead.

“Oh well,” the Shadowscale observed as he looted the dead Emperor. “He died because we came for him. It counts as our kill in my eyes.”

“You won’t even need to desecrate Boethiah’s sacred blade,” Gabriella agreed. “I’m sorry about Delphine.”

“If she’d let it go…” Rustem sighed. “Loot what you can and set this pile of junk ablaze. We still have a statement to make and then a payment from Motierre to collect.”

He was, however, going to vent his spleen on Motierre once he had the payment. Let the Empire crumble even more and Mede watch from the Void.


	46. Shout, Ground, Strike!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

“Dragonborn? You look very human to me,” remarked the Khajiit in mage robes with a snowy sabre cat colouring.

“We met briefly during the Winterhold crisis, remember?” Aurelia asked as she bowed slightly.

“J’zargo was concerned with other things. Arch-Mage Onmund asked me to test out my new spells on the dragon you intend to fight. J’zargo is pleased to oblige.” The Khajiit returned the bow politely.

“Do you need somewhere to stay?” Aurelia asked carefully.

“J’zargo is staying with Ri’saad for the moment,” the Khajiit said nonchalantly. “Khajiit has no desire to share a house that smells of wet dog.”

Before anyone could respond to that, the Khajiit swanned out of Jorrvaskr.

“He’s a very good battlemage, better than Marcurio,” Belrand observed. “With the ego to match.”

“Marcurio did very well when I hired him,” Aurelia told the Companion tartly. “Dragons just weren’t in his price range.”

“Marcurio’s a Synodic Journeyman. The one time I met J’zargo, he mentioned he was an Expert-level Destruction mage who’d trained at the Synod and the College of Whispers,” Belrand countered. “Facing the World-Eater himself, I’d rather have the cat than the apprentice.”

“Are you sure all the Companions should be coming with us?” Aurelia asked anxiously.

“There’s no point leaving anyone behind,” Vilkas said grimly. “If you fail at High Hrothgar, we’re all meat for the World-Eater.”

That was how Aurelia wound up leading a party of ten to Ivarstead. They overnighted in the village, then climbed the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar. Arngeir wasn’t best pleased to see a horde of strangers but waved them through to the Throat of the World.

“The greyish-white dragon, I repeat, the greyish-white dragon is not to be killed. He is Paarthurnax, Grandmaster of the Greybeards,” Aurelia told them in the courtyard.

“Will he join in the fight?” Skjor asked calmly.

“Probably. If I lose, he’ll be Alduin’s second snack.” Aurelia shivered inwardly at Paarthurnax’s warning, borne on the heels of the story of Miraak, that Alduin may very well be able to absorb _her_ soul if she failed.

“You have it. The Kel - the Elder Scroll. Tood kreh... qalos. Time shudders at its touch. There is no question. You are doom-driven. Kogaan Akatosh. The very bones of the earth are at your disposal. Go then. Fulfil your destiny. Take the Scroll to the Time-Wound. Do not delay. Alduin will be coming. He cannot miss the signs.”

Paarthurnax’s rumbling voice was grim but oddly joyful as the others positioned themselves around the peak of the Throat of the World.

“I got that impression,” Aurelia agreed as she unslung the scroll-case from her back. “That’s why I brought friends. I doubt Alduin would want to sit down and discuss the errors of His ways.”

Paarthurnax actually snickered. “Niid, Dovahkiin. He is certain in His rightness, for he is the mightiest of the dovahhe and among us, might makes right.”

“I’ve got to introduce you lot to Stendarr’s priests,” she muttered as she opened the scroll. “Well, here goes nothing.”

…

“Zu’u lost daal!”

“Why yes,” retorted the Dragonborn. “We noticed that at Helgen!”

“Nust wo ni qiilaan fen kos duaan,” taunted the black dragon as he circled overhead. “Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor. My belly is full of the souls of your fellow mortals, Dovahkiin. Die now and await your fate in Sovngarde!”

“Lost funt. You are too late, Alduin!” snapped Paarthurnax as he took to the air.

“Suleyki mulaag, Paarthurnax. My power has waxed, while yours has waned. Aav uv dir. Join me or perish with your mortal friends.” If a dragon could smirk, Alduin would definitely be smirking.

“Unslaad hokoron! Never again!” Paarthurnax roared in defiance.

Alduin turned to face him, putting his back to the Dragonborn, and Aurelia Shouted “JOOR ZAH FRUUL!” A burst of purple light struck Alduin in the spine and brought him to the ground.

By now, the Companions were used to working with Aurelia and the battlemage J’zargo soon caught the rhythm of the battle. Shout, ground, strike until the effect wore off, then repeat the entire cycle.

“Pahlok joorre! Hin kah fen kos bonaar,” Alduin promised darkly. “Arrogant mortals! Your pride will be humbled.”

“Niid, Alduin,” Paarthurnax answered as he stooped from above. “It is you who will taste humility this day.”

Shout, ground, strike. Shout, ground, strike. Knowingly or unknowingly, they were matching the beat of Eorlund’s hammer on steel the day that he and Aurelia reforged Wuuthrad. Shout, ground, strike. Shout, ground, strike.

Jon focused on launching arrow after arrow at the unholy beast. Shout, ground, strike! Shout, ground, strike! He found himself calling the beat as a bard should, the twang of his bow the only instrument accompanying him.

Alduin retaliated, but his focus was always on Aurelia and her Wards were strong enough to deflect the strongest fire Shout. He’d heard the story of how the Dragonborn had Shouted a Cyrod into dust from Umana, the new whelp.

Shout, ground, strike! Shout, ground, strike!

After Paarthurnax slammed into his side and left great gouging wounds, Alduin broke free. “Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan!”

“Taste it, Alduin. Mortal. Finite. Temporary.” Aurelia’s voice was the low hum of wind preceding the storm, the first thunder of the snowy avalanche. “You aren’t eternal and you _will_ end.”

Alduin’s only response was to fly away in what could only be described as fear.

“We did it!” Erik cried out. “We won!”

“Here and now, yes,” Aurelia agreed. “But the final battle lies in Sovngarde. Anyone know how to get there short of a death in battle?”

“Lot krongrah. You truly have the Voice of a dovah. Alduin's allies will think twice after this victory,” Paarthurnax said proudly. “Ni liivrah hin mere. True, this is not the final krongah - victory. But not even the heroes of old were able to defeat Alduin in open battle. Alduin always was pahlok - arrogant in his power. Uznahgar paar. He took domination as his birthright. This should shake the loyalty of the dov who serve him.”

“It was eleven of us as opposed to the Three Tongues versus Alduin,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “So what now?”

“Yes... one of his allies could tell us. Motmahus... But it will not be easy to... convince one of them to betray him. Perhaps the hofkahsejun - the palace in Whiterun... Dragonsreach. It was originally built to house a captive dovah. A fine place to trap one of Alduin's allies, hmm?” Paarthurnax asked shrewdly.

“I knew it.” Aurelia pursed her lips. “After you defected, who was Alduin’s chief lieutenant?”

“Odahviing. Red dragons take pride in serving a master who has proven his strength.” Paarthurnax’s jaws gaped to reveal several missing fangs. “Call his name, Koor-Lah-Noor, and he will come to test his strength.”

“Gerdur’s going to _love_ you using her palace to capture a dragon,” drawled Skjor.

Aurelia shrugged. “She’s a big girl. She’ll probably survive it. But time… time is of the essence. You heard Alduin. He’s been snacking on the souls of heroes. So if you want to save Kodlak, we better get cracking.”

“I will take you down, two by two, to the plains below,” promised Paarthurnax. “I too have friends in Sovngarde.”

Jon decided after that experience he never wanted to be a hero again. But Jorrvaskr… Jorrvaskr needed a skald. He could do that, Bards College or not. Generations later, the tales of Jon War-Song were considered vital parts of the Poetic Edda and as the Grey-Manes worked steel, his descendants by Olfina worked words into legend.

Heroes, after all, needed skalds to help make their legends. Or how else would they be remembered?


	47. Victory and Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of child abandonment.

Solitude, with its location on a narrow promontory and its high walls, was thought to be immune to most siege engines. Catapults were out of the question, arbalests only good if soldiers ventured out onto the road, and a battering ram vulnerable to missile fire from above. The city wasn’t quite impregnable, but it _was_ protected from most siege warfare.

Solitude had been built in a time long after the existence of Battle-Tongues had faded from memory, so therefore didn’t take the Thu’um into account in its defences.

Protected by the shields of his hearthmen, Ulfric Stormcloak Shouted the metal gates from their hinges with one Unrelenting Force and before the Haafingar guard could react, his soldiers poured in.

It was Rikke planning the defence, every winding street protected with barricades and soldiers willing to die for the cause, traps and caltrops designed to hold a warrior long enough for the archers on the walls and roofs to kill them. Spaced together tighter than Ulfric had the space to regain his breath for another Shout, advancing forward along the circuitous path was a costly affair for the Stormcloaks. By the time he reached the far entrance of Castle Dour by the Temple of All Gods, half his hearthmen were dead. Beyond him, Sigdrifa’s soldiers were securing the space between Castle Dour and the Blue Palace, where Elisif the Fair surely cowered in fear at the thought of dying like her husband.

Ulfric wasn’t so crude. There were several loyal Stormcloaks who’d make Torygg’s widow a suitable husband, once she had accepted the new order of things. Maybe Ralof. He liked redheads.

The resistance was stiffest in the Castle Dour courtyard and Captain Aldis, a respected and formidable warrior, stood before the door to Tullius’ headquarters. “Stand down,” Galmar growled. “Skyrim will need good warriors in the future.”

“I’d tell you to go to Oblivion,” Aldis said disgustedly, “Except even the Daedric Princes wouldn’t want either of you.”

To Aldis’ credit, he fought well. But he died under Galmar’s battleaxe and then they were inside Castle Dour.

Tullius hadn’t fled after the death of the Emperor. The stress of the past few months had aged the man and banished that Colovian exactitude in grooming; the General was unshaven, with bloodshot eyes and new lines around his mouth.

“Secure the door,” Ulfric commanded over his shoulder.

“I’ve already done so.” Unsurprisingly, it was Sigdrifa who spoke. When Ulfric glanced over his shoulder again, he saw his wife had brought an ashen-faced Elisif along. The Stormsword always did believe in using examples to teach others proper behaviour.

“Efficient as always,” Galmar said approvingly.

“So, Ulfric, your dream is nearly complete,” Tullius said wearily. “The death of the Emperor, the crumbling of the Empire. I hope you’re pleased with the chaos you’ve wrought.”

“Mede’s death was none of our doing. It was Armand Motierre who hired the Brotherhood to do the deed and Rustem Aurelius who carried it out for the sake of personal pleasure and vengeance,” Sigdrifa answered.

“Yes, I know. The Emperor knew it was coming and emptied the _Katariah_ to spare as many as could be spared,” Tullius observed testily. “Akaviria is already safe across the borders, thank the gods.”

“But the Empire is reduced to a measly two provinces,” Galmar grinned.

“Where’s Rikke?” Ulfric growled.

“I sent her to Cyrodiil with what was left of the Penitus Oculatus. The heartland must be protected and Akaviria will need a competent general to do so.” Tullius allowed himself a thin smile. “My death here is my apology to the Empire, Ulfric. My only prayer is that you don’t get to enjoy your victory for long.”

“I will enjoy it longer than you,” Ulfric whispered as Tullius rose to his feet.

“Any last prayers?” Galmar asked as he hefted his battleaxe.

“Stendarr, I commend my soul to you. Akatosh, patron of the Empire, bring me home and protect my family. Arkay, grant me a good death…” Tullius sighed and let the prayer trail off.

Galmar’s battleaxe swung once and the General’s body crumpled, eyes glazing over in death.

It was done. They had won.

…

Galmar held Tullius’ head up to the acclamation of the gathered Stormcloaks. To give Elisif credit, the Jarl of Solitude endured the spectacle with little more than pursed lips and ashen cheeks. Maybe there was some hope for the woman.

He was just turning to Ulfric to give him a hearty embrace and rejoice in a free Skyrim when an arrow took his beloved in the throat. Red fetching, steel point. Standard Legion issue.

“No, no, no,” Galmar muttered as he tried to staunch the bleeding, Sigdrifa barking orders to find the archer that some incompetent had obviously missed. Ulfric couldn’t die, not on the eve of victory!

But Galmar was no healer, no one had a healing potion, and so Ulfric Stormcloak died at the cusp of his victory. He’d barely enjoyed a free Skyrim for an hour.

Somehow, Galmar wasn’t surprised to find out that it was Quaestor Hadvar, Rikke’s aide and a staunch Imperial loyalist, who’d fired the shot. There could be no example made of him because Ulfric’s hearthmen, frenzied by rage and grief, cut him down as soon as they found him with Legion-issue recurved bow still in hand.

The taste of victory turned into ashes in Galmar’s mouth and he sat by his murdered lord, howling his grief to the skies. How could the gods have done this to them?

…

It took hours for the hubbub to die down. Gabriella had hidden in places less salubrious than a cistern of brackish water but it was a relief to exit and taste the clean night air. Stormcloaks patrolled desultorily through the streets but given her enchanted gloves and boots, it was nothing to climb down the walls and drop into the harbour in complete silence.

Rustem was camped across the harbour in the shadow of some Nord ruin. “It’s done?” he asked in that low sensuous voice.

“I got Ulfric. Sigdrifa’s too wary…” Gabriella admitted with a sigh. “I used a Frenzy spell on the Legion soldier who killed Ulfric and then cast it again on the Stormcloaks who found him.”

“Good job.” The Redguard’s mouth quirked wryly. “I remember when Irkand tried to do that once. Except he’s shit at ranged combat, so he hit a flock of pigeons with Frenzy and got chased out of town with birds mobbing and shitting on him.”

Gabriella laughed delightedly. “Pity he wasn’t pecked to death.”

“Agreed.” Rustem steepled his fingers and stared into the fire. “I’ve got a couple ideas concerning Sigdrifa. I don’t just want her dead, I want her legacy destroyed to the point that even her own sons would spit on her corpse as it’s thrown into the sea. I’d love to soul-trap her too, but I’m realistic to understand that may not be possible.”

“She’s not a pleasant person, I agree, but both of you were at fault in that disaster you called a marriage,” Gabriella chided softly.

“I know that!” the Listener snapped in a rare show of temper. “If it had been just that, I’d settle for a clean death. Satakal’s balls, I’d send her to Sovngarde out of respect for her as a warrior and general.”

His blue eyes were hard. “But she abandoned our daughter, even after knowing she was alive and in the House of Dibella. I know now that it’s turned out as the gods have willed it. By the time I knew Aurelia was alive, I was already on the Imperial shit list and Hammerfell couldn’t have extracted her quietly and brought her to safety. So I went and put the fear of Satakal into the High Prelate of Dibella to see my girl have the best future possible.”

Gabriella nodded with a sigh. “I sympathise. But ruining her… that may not be possible. The contracts she took out with Astrid were destroyed in the fall of Falkreath Sanctuary-“

“Were they?” Rustem interrupted with a smirk. “I’m sure if we ask the Guild _nicely_ – and with a hefty bribe – they could find the appropriate evidence for us.”

_“Rustem.”_ Gabriella allowed her disappointment to colour her voice. “Just kill the woman and be done with her.”

“I get where you’re coming from, but at the moment, the Stormsword controls an army and it’s going to take at least a week before the Jarls can gather for a Moot. You remember what Windhelm was like when Sigdrifa ruled there in Ulfric’s name. Imagine that but on a national scale.” Rustem shook his head grimly. “She’s going to be unfettered by Ulfric’s death. That woman, near any kind of power, is a bad idea for all concerned.”

Gabriella shrugged. “So let’s give her enough rope to hang herself with. So long as she is dead, who cares how it is achieved?”


	48. The Winged Snow Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and corpse desecration.

“You did warn me you’d need the dragon trap, and so it is prepared,” Gerdur told Aurelia after the request had been made. The Jarl of Whiterun wore black bands around each arm and there were signs of weeping among her staff. “But did you hear the news? The Stormcloaks took Solitude and killed Tullius… but an archer got Ulfric just after the General’s execution.”

“I’m sorry,” Aurelia said, closing her eyes. “I can’t attend the funeral. Alduin’s on the ropes and… if I don’t go now, He’ll be able to replenish His strength by feasting on the heroes of Sovngarde.”

“No!” Gerdur gasped in horror.

“Yes,” Farkas confirmed grimly. “We heard Alduin Himself taunt us about how he’d nibble on our souls in Sovngarde.”

Gerdur’s expression hardened. “You must save them, Aurelia. What do you need from me and mine other than the trap?”

“I don’t need numbers, I need the best,” Aurelia said. “But first and foremost, I and the Companions need to sleep. We’re trapping a dragon, Jarl. That means we’ll need to be at our best.”

“Of course.” Gerdur reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Bjarni and Egil will understand. I will make the other Jarls understand.”

“Thank you.”

That night was dreamless, thanks to a potion from Arcadia. Gerdur was more tolerant and cosmopolitan than the Grey-Manes, if not as much as Bjarni, and she’d kept Balgruuf’s laws in place to ensure non-Nords would be treated decently. Aventus Avenicci now lived with his daughter and assisted Gerdur’s steward Avulstein Grey-Mane with his duties. Farengar didn’t care who ruled, but he looked forward to examining a dragon at close range.

Two hours before dawn, Aurelia arose and went to the bathhouse alone. From head to toe she anointed herself with sacred oils given to her by Mother Hamal, performed the magics that restored her robes to pristine condition, and donned every piece of jewellery she’d possessed. Eorlund, while she slept, had enchanted everything that could be enchanted to be resistant to frost and fire, with her boots gleaming with Muffle and Sneaking enchantments laid on by Farengar. Speed and stealth would be the key to reaching the passage to Sovngarde, not superior firepower. Her final act was to smear turquoise warpaint across her face in a cross-hatched pattern of three lines, the ancient markings of County Bruma. Today, she would go as a Nord.

Though her appetite was scant, she breakfasted on fruit, bread and juice, accepting a pack of food from Jon. “I doubt there’ll be a greengrocer in Sovngarde,” the lanky blond said amusedly.

“Probably not,” Aurelia agreed wryly.

The Companions and J’zargo accompanied her to Dragonsreach. “We mean to catch, not kill,” Aurelia told them calmly. “Knowing Alduin, the way to Skuldafn probably requires wings and he’ll think that deterrent enough.”

“Will this Odahviing comply?” Vilkas asked.

“If he doesn’t want to become Gerdur’s pet, he will.”

“My city is in your hands, Dragonborn,” Gerdur said just outside the Great Porch’s doors. “May the Three Mothers be with you.”

“Thank you.”

Outside, the Companions deployed themselves appropriately, with J’zargo by the trap’s trigger. Aurelia took a deep breath and exhaled, then took a deeper one. It was time.

“ODAHVIING!”

_Winged Snow Hunter._ Interesting name for a dragon said to be as red as blood.

It was silent for a long time before Torvar, last of the old whelps, stepped out to see what was going on. “I don’t see nothing,” he complained. “I bet this-“

Famous last words. A blood-red streak came down and soon the sound of Torvar’s despairing scream was ended by a distant thud.

Aurelia gathered herself as he stooped again and then struck him with Dragonrend, forcing the dragon to land on the porch and stalk towards her. She fell back, feeling heat blast past her as he used Fire Breath, until he was within the lighter semi-circle that denoted the position of the trap. J’zargo, ever quick-witted, caught his neck within the dragon-trap’s wooden jaws neatly.

“Niid!” spat the dragon. “Horvutah med kodaav. Caught like a bear in a trap... Zok frini grind ko grah drun viiki, Dovahkiin. Ah. I forget. You do not have the dovah speech. My... eagerness to meet you in battle was my... undoing, Dovahkiin. I salute your, hmm, low cunning in devising such a grahmindol - stratagem.”

“I have enough Dovahzul to hold a conversation,” Aurelia said, dabbing at her forehead with a handkerchief. “But if you’ve heard anything about me, you know I’m not much of a fighter.”

“Zu'u bonaar. You went to a great deal of trouble to put me in this... humiliating position,” Odahviing answered, his sigh a hot blast of wind. “Hind siiv Alduin, hmm? No doubt you want to know where to find Alduin?”

“Yes. Where is he hiding?” Aurelia folded her arms.

“Rinik vazah. An apt phrase. Alduin bovul. One reason I came to your call was to test your Thu'um for myself. Many of us have begun to question Alduin's lordship, whether his Thu'um was truly the strongest. Among ourselves, of course. Mu ni meyye. None were yet ready to openly defy him.” If a dragon could have sounded rueful, Odahviing surely would have.

“Go on,” Aurelia said softly. “I don’t get my kicks from killing dragons, you know.”

“Unslaad krosis. Innumerable pardons. I digress. He has travelled to Sovngarde to regain his strength, devouring the sillesejoor... the souls of the mortal dead. A privilege he jealously guards... His door to Sovngarde is at Skuldalfn, one of his ancient fanes high in in the eastern mountains. Mindoraan, pah ok middovahhe lahvraan til. I surely do not need to warn you that all his remaining strength is marshalled there. Zu'u lost ofan hin laan... now that I have answered your question, you will allow me to go free?”

“Let me guess: Skuldafn’s nice and high in the mountains, far beyond a mortal’s capacity to travel without assistance,” Aurelia drawled.

Odahviing blinked once. “You are shrewd, Dovahkiin.”

“Dibella didn’t bring me into the world during the last shower,” Aurelia noted sardonically. “I will give you your freedom when you agree, swearing by Bormahu, to carry me swiftly and safely to Skuldafn.”

“Dovahkiin, you have bested me,” Odahviing retorted, sounding offended. “I need not swear by Bormahu to do this small favour for you!”

“Nafalilargus, known as Nah-Fah-Lah, was a treacherous son of a bitch who tried to betray Talos _and_ Cyrus the Restless,” Aurelia told the dragon bluntly. “Pardon my scepticism when it comes to the red dragons.”

“Nah-Fah-Lah was a moron,” Odahviing observed. “But… as you wish, Dovahkiin. I swear by Bormahu, our father Akatosh, that I will bear you safely and swiftly to Skuldafn. More than that, you will need to cast down Alduin.”

“Fair enough,” Aurelia agreed. “If you swear by Bormahu to not harm the people of Whiterun, I will remove the collar now so that you might eat and drink freely.”

“We’ll go and find Torvar to give him an honourable burial,” Vilkas growled. “That dragon had better stay here or Jorrvaskr will avenge one of its own.”

Gerdur and Farengar stuck their heads out. “By the Nine, you did it!” the Jarl cried out.

“Incredible! Uh... sir, you have no idea how long I have waited for such an opportunity! I would be most appreciative if you would permit me to perform some, ah, tests on you. Purely in the interests of the advancement of knowledge,” Farengar said eagerly as he came forward.

“Begone, mage. Do not test my promise to the Dovahkiin,” Odahviing snapped.

“I assure you, you will not even notice me. Most of them are hardly painful at all to a large dragon such as yourself.” Farengar was already rounding Odahviing with something sharp in his hand. “Surely you won't miss a few scales... or a small amount of blood...”

“Joor mey! What are you doing back there? Yol... Toor...Shul!” Odahviing roared fire to the ceiling.

“Back off, Farengar!” Gerdur snapped. “If that dragon wants you as dessert, I’ll not stop him.”

Farengar was too busy running for the doors, his tests forgotten, to pay much heed to her words.

“Get him a couple goats, please,” Aurelia said with a sigh. “He’s sworn by Akatosh to not harm any of your people.”

“Only if they do not stab me with such implements,” Odahviing growled. “That joor, Fah-An-Gah, will be dinner if I see him again.”

“You won’t,” Gerdur promised flatly.

J’zargo released Odahviing at Aurelia’s nod and leaned on the balcony, sighing wistfully. “This one wishes he could breathe fire.”

“You don’t need the help,” Aurelia told him wryly.

“But think of how impressive it would be if J’zargo sets an an obnoxious Nord on fire?”

“Mortals are insane,” Odahviing muttered in Dovahzul.

As he ate and drank, Aurelia made her farewells. “You’ll come back,” Farkas stated with simple faith that was almost enough to break her heart. “Give our love to Kodlak.”

“I will,” she promised.

Finally, it was time to mount Odahviing and be gone. “May Kynareth guard you while you pass through her realm!” Gerdur called out as the dragon took off.

May all the gods guard her, for this was truly the endgame.


	49. The Heart's Home of the Nords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and child abandonment.

Ulfric was embracing Galmar as the mists closed in on them when a Voice, warm and sweet as a summer wind, cut through Alduin’s soul-snare. “LOK VAH KOOR!”

They shared a grin. Aurelia had come to save them all.

Unable to reach the Hall of Valour, the Stormcloak heroes had gathered in and held a small pocket valley in the endless vale before the Whalebone Bridge. Galmar had come shortly after Ulfric’s death, true to his vows to the last, and they had tried to survive as best they could under Alduin’s malevolent presence. Until today, there had been no hope beyond hoping the World-Eater sated himself on Imperial souls.

Four more times they heard the Shout before she reached them, and as the mists cleared away to reveal a glorious sky of stars and light, Ulfric realised she’d collected everyone trapped in the mists. Even Torygg and the Imperials.

“Hadvar!” snapped Galmar. “I’ll kill you for killing Ulfric!”

“No, you won’t. He earned his end as much as Ulfric did,” Aurelia retorted.

“Peace, Galmar,” Ulfric told his beloved wearily. “Eternity is too long to hold a grudge.”

“Speak for yourself,” Torygg told him. “You _murdered_ me, Ulfric.”

“And you died well to come here,” Ulfric told the former High King wearily. “I gave orders for Elisif to be spared. I have no quarrel with her and I would not make things harder for the Imperial Holds than necessary.”

“Except you and Galmar are _here_ and the Stormsword is _not_ ,” was Torygg’s response. “Or did her treacheries catch up to her and you had her given the sea-death she deserves?”

“Speak plainly, man,” Ulfric grated. “Sigdrifa has done all she does for the good of Skyrim.”

“Alduin is literally flying over our heads, I need to somehow get into the Hall of Valour to consult with the Three Tongues despite not being a fighter of any sort, and time is running short!” Aurelia announced in a sudden explosion of temper. “Could you all kindly set aside your quarrels until we reach the Whalebone Bridge, if you please?”

“There isn’t much to tell,” Torygg answered, ignoring Aurelia. “A Dark Brotherhood initiate was captured and interrogated by Maro the Elder. Among other things, he revealed that Sigdrifa had put contracts out on you and Galmar. Your _wife_ , Jarl Ulfric, has shit on everything we Nords hold sacred.”

“Dibella’s tits!” Aurelia blasphemed, her expression shocked.

Somehow, Ulfric wasn’t surprised. “Joke’s on the Brotherhood. Hadvar killed me, it seems.”

“I might have fired the arrow, but there was a womer – Dunmer – who stood by me and kept me calm to make the shot,” Hadvar said quietly. “I figured I was a dead man anyway, so I decided to cooperate.”

Aurelia inhaled shudderingly and exhaled explosively. “We go to the Whalebone Bridge,” she announced grimly.

Ulfric nodded. “Very well, Dragonborn. You have bigger fish to fry.”

Alduin’s mists were parted like silken curtains as they walked through the vale to the clear spot where Tsun held sway. The Shield-Thane stood taller than the tallest Altmer, his plain face and heavy muscles reminiscent of Hadvar but on a far grander scale.

“What brings you, wayfarers grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honoured dead?” Tsun rumbled as he readied his axe.

“I am Aurelia Ink-Fingers, Dragonborn and Priestess of Dibella, and I ask passage for myself and these courageous souls,” the Dragonborn told him. “I pursue Alduin.”

“A fateful errand. No few have chafed to face the Worm since first he set his soul-snare here at Sovngarde's threshold. But Shor restrained our wrathful onslaught - perhaps, deep counselled, your doom he foresaw.” Tsun smiled slightly. “But you – and these honoured souls – must test yourselves against me before being permitted entrance.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Aurelia said disgustedly before she used Unrelenting Force to knock Tsun on his arse.

Beside Ulfric, Galmar burst out laughing. Even some of the other Stormcloaks were amused.

Tsun rose to his feet, dusting himself off. “Ah! It's been too long since last I faced a doom-driven hero of the dragon blood.”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t going to seduce my way through,” Aurelia said tartly. “The Dibellan Arts have their limits!”

“You could have sung him to sleep or something,” opined a female Stormcloak.

“I am not a singer. I’m pretty sure that somewhere in the Dibellan Protocols, there’s a commandment specifically forbidding me to sing,” Aurelia said dryly. “Molag Bal would hesitate to use my singing as a torment; he’d think it a bit too cruel and unusual a punishment.”

Tsun smirked. “You may pass, Dragonborn. Let these others test themselves.”

All of them lost, of course, but all stood their ground and were permitted to cross the Whalebone Bridge. Ulfric was surprised to see Kodlak Grey-Mane waiting on the other side, just outside the hall. How had he gotten through safely?

“Aurelia,” the Harbinger said warmly. “I see you aided us in cleansing the beast blood from the Companions. Thank you.”

“Skjor, Aela and Belrand are still werewolves. Vilkas has purified himself. I don’t know what choice Farkas made,” Aurelia told him. “The Companions send their love.”

“Give them mine.” Kodlak nodded to the door. “Come, let us enter Sovngarde forever.”

The doors opened and in them lay glory that banished all grudges and sorrows. Ulfric went eagerly into it, following the Harbinger. He and Galmar had come to the heart’s home of the Nords. They had received their eternal reward.


	50. The Hall of Valour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence, fantastic racism, misogyny and slut-shaming. The Moot storyline will pick up once Aurelia returns to Nirn, for obvious reasons.

“ _You’re_ the Dragonborn?”

Aurelia ignored the bearded warrior’s question as she pushed through the crowd towards the Three Tongues. Everything here was edged with golden light, even the throne which shone brightest of all, beyond even her gaze to see. Nords of all kinds feasted, fought and fornicated without self-consciousness in the gleaming halls, mead flowed in waterfalls, and platters of meat never emptied no matter who feasted from them.

“I asked you a question,” grated the warrior as he grabbed her arm.

“FUS!” Aurelia’s short, sharp Shout sent him sprawling on the table, spilling meat and mead everywhere, some of it splashing on Ysgramor himself. The first Harbinger of the Companions simply roared with laughter, picked the warrior up by the scruff of his neck, and threw him to the side.

“He will trouble you no more,” the seven-something-foot-tall warrior assured her. “Though I find it passing strange Kyne chose a… a…”

“I’m a Priestess of Dibella and my day job is calligrapher and illuminator,” Aurelia replied, rubbing her arm where the warrior grabbed it. “Maybe Akatosh got sick of muscle-bound morons and tyrannical dictators and decided that someone with no interest in power would be better suited to being Dragonborn.”

“You serve Shor’s Bed-Wife?” Ysgramor turned around and planted a kick into the still-prone bearded warrior’s gut that sent him rolling twice over, spitting after the man in disgust. “I apologise, priestess. The fashion has changed since I walked the world. In my day, Dibella’s servants wore flowers in their hair and walked barefoot, tending the sacred gardens of Atmora and giving heart’s ease to all who sought them in honest need and desire.”

“Dibella is the goddess of love, beauty, art and all good things now,” Aurelia said. “I write and create illuminations for books. That’s why they call me Ink-Fingers.”

“Skyrim has become so peaceful then?”

“I lived for most of my life in the lands which were once ruled by the Ayleids. Given Ulfric’s rebellion and the fracturing of the Empire, I’ll probably have to move to the Markarth Temple. I’m related to several prominent rebels,” Aurelia answered with a sigh.

“Aurelia sells herself short,” Kodlak said from beside her. “She helped the Companions free themselves from a curse, rescued the Sibyl of Dibella, thwarted merish plots…”

She flushed. “More like I was trying to mind my own business and got caught up in those events.”

“Is that not the fate of the Dragonborn? Wyrd twists around you like thread on a spindle.” Ysgramor sighed. “Go forth and save us all, priestess. You are our last, best hope if this be not the end times.”

“Why, Dragonborn!” greeted a vaguely familiar old man in mage robes. “Welcome to Sovngarde. We met briefly but I’m Tolfdir.”

“Aurelia.” It was strange to shake a dead man’s hand. “Onmund’s Arch-Mage, Bjarni’s Jarl of Winterhold. I think they’re planning a statue of you in the College courtyard.”

“I have high hopes for those two boys.” Tolfdir made a shooing motion. “Now go save the world – again.”

“Only two Shouts?” asked a blonde woman in fine armour scornfully of Ulfric. “You call yourself a Battle-Tongue?”

“He’s post-Jurgen,” a dark-haired, one-eyed man pointed out dryly. “Two Shouts is practically a bloody miracle from Kyne for one of those Tongues.”

“I stand by my actions!” snapped an old, silver-haired man in Greybeard robes.

“How about you get off your holy arse and lend your Voice to Alduin’s defeat?” retorted the blonde. “Ulfric and his consort have already volunteered.”

“Only because they’re war-hungry!” said the old Greybeard.

“I thought Sovngarde ended all feuds?” Aurelia asked the grey-haired man in stone-grey robes almost like a Greybeard’s garb.

“This is a friendly disagreement,” answered the sage as he grasped her chin. “Well, Gormlaith, Hakon, this one’s descended from me. She’s got the Falmer eyes.”

“Got some Yokudan in her from the looks of it,” Gormlaith observed laconically.

“My father was Yokudan, yes, and my grandfather Nedic with Akaviri descent. My mother was from the ‘Kreath and I was born in Bruma,” Aurelia answered as the sage released her face.

“Akaviri? You come from a long line of dragon-slayers, for all you’re dressed like a whore,” Hakon observed.

“These are priestly robes. Your name is remembered with some renown… for all you’re dressed like a two-bit gladiator in a provincial show,” Aurelia retorted sweetly.

Gormlaith laughed. “You, I like. She’s got your tongue, Felldir.”

“That she does.” Felldir the Old folded his hands in his robes. “There are those who await you outside, to fulfil their last oath as Dragonguard. We will go forth and greet them, but first, our battle-strategy.”

“Clear Skies to banish the mist, then Dragonrend to bring him down. If we stagger Dragonrend, it will leave three of us able to use other Shouts as needed, and Ulfric to pummel his wings with Unrelenting Force. If Galmar and the Dragonguard flank Alduin and savage his rear, we may yet come through this,” Aurelia immediately said.

“She inherited Sigdrifa’s tactical sense. What we could have done with her had she been raised as a true Nord,” Ulfric said regretfully.

“If what Torygg said about my mother’s true, I was probably better off in the House of Dibella,” Aurelia pointed out.

“Perhaps. I admire Sigdrifa’s planning and pragmatism.” Ulfric sighed. “Let us deal with the worm.”

They went outside.


	51. The End of the World-Eater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Kodlak invited himself to the final battle, lol.

Time had come.

“Clear Skies, together!” Aurelia ordered as they walked to the edge of Tsun’s influence. “Dragonrend in volleys. Ulfric, focus on Unrelenting Force. Galmar, Kodlak, Dragonguard – flank and attack from behind. Cripple his legs and wings.”

“We know the strategy!” snapped the stocky man in lamellar plate and a demon-mask helmet. Akaviri katana in hand. “Get on with it.”

“If I recall correctly, Kin-Tatsuo, the Dragonguard serves the Dragonborn and not the other way around,” chided Felldir. “It never hurts to go over strategy before joining battle.”

“How _did_ Akaviri and non-Nords get into Sovngarde anyway?” Kodlak murmured to Hakon One-Eye as the two older warriors glared at each other.

“Shor gave them a place to await doom’s end. Heaven’s Reach, they call it.” The Tongue shrugged his broad shoulders. “Doom’s end is here and now they argue with the Dragonborn.”

“Don’t let the pretty robes fool you. Aurelia has an honour as true and bright as Skyforge Steel. She avenged me and helped the Circle mostly free itself from the beast blood.” Kodlak sighed. “Some still embrace it.”

“Their souls, their choice,” Hakon said with another shrug. “But hark, the battle begins.”

It took four uses of Clear Skies to banish the mists from Sovngarde and bring Alduin down to battle. Aurelia was the first to use Dragonrend, then Felldir, then Gormlaith and finally Hakon. When Alduin was grounded, Ulfric pummelled him with Unrelenting Force while the Dragonguard – and Blades – attacked from the rear.

But for one woman, a blonde Breton, who attacked from the front and was torn in half by Alduin’s maw for her troubles. Kodlak shook his head; there was something vaguely familiar about her.

There was a terrible beauty in battle, when the clash of steel and cries of the warriors blended into a primal music. For the first time in a long time, Kodlak lost himself in that joyous refrain, thoughts unclouded by the hunt. A righteous battle, true allies, a terrible enemy. It was what every Nord dreamed of.

Aurelia did more than just Shout. Golden chimes rang through the clamour of battle as she healed those injured by Alduin’s claws or fangs or Warded off his flames. Some were beyond her healing, their divine bodies fading as the World-Eater slew them. But all stood firm, stood as one, in the face of the ultimate horror of Nord legend.

But… he wasn’t that horrific. As the battle raged, Alduin became smaller, less frightening. From the bogeyman to a child’s little monster under the bed. His Shouts went from sepulchral to the fearful whisper of a coward. Compared to the light and glory of Shor’s blessed warriors, he was but a shadow in the corner of the eye, a thing fit only to frighten the weak.

“Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan!” he cried out in despair as Kodlak planted his sword into his back and Galmar split his head in two.

“You are not eternal and you have ended,” Aurelia said in a voice that shook the horizons with pity. “Go now and learn your place.”

“NIID!” And Alduin… cracked apart, like cheap pottery thrown into a fire, skin flaking and cracking until there was nothing left but the echo of his despair.

The World-Eater was gone and Kyne’s clean wind blew through Sovngarde’s vales once more.

Time had come… and it was done.

…

It was done.

Aurelia sank to her knees in shock as the last echo of Alduin’s cries faded away into the ethereal vaults of heaven. Around her, the Dragonguard, the Blades and the Three Tongues rejoiced. Those Alduin had slain, including Delphine, no longer existed on any level. She didn’t even know how Delphine died.

“This was a mighty deed! The doom of Alduin encompassed at last, and cleansed is Sovngarde of his evil snare. They will sing of this battle in Shor's hall forever. But your fate lies elsewhere. When you have completed your count of days, I may welcome you again, with glad friendship, and bid you join the blessed feasting. When you are ready to rejoin the living, just bid me so, and I will send you back,” Tsun said from behind her.

She pushed back her hair and rose to her feet. “I had a lot of help to get me here.”

“That you acknowledge it speaks much of your modesty, Dragonborn. But the final banishing was yours.” Tsun rubbed his blunt chin. “Let no one call you coward. You faced your doom unflinchingly. Shor would offer this rich boon: a Shout to bring forth a hero from Sovngarde at need. Never will you lack a sword-arm in battle from here on in.”

“Thank you.” Aurelia bowed slightly.

“Aurelia!” Ulfric bustled over, his face high and happy. “Carry word from me to the boys, tell them I’m in Sovngarde with Galmar and we are well.”

“I will,” she promised softly. “About my mother…”

Ulfric sighed. “Galmar and I are beyond mortal concerns now. Perhaps Torygg was right when he said she’d put contracts out on us; it fits your mother’s… cautious… nature. I can only ask you to use your judgement.”

“Talos with you,” she told him.

Ulfric laughed sadly. “I remember now. The Thalmor encompassed the destruction of Talos during the events at Winterhold, but Dibella saved what was mortal of Him and gave it a second chance. Seek out Hjalti.”

“That was his Nord name.”

“Yes.” Ulfric smiled wryly. “He did warn me a reckoning was coming. I suppose he was right.”

“Farewell, Aurelia.” Galmar gave her a fierce embrace. “If you don’t call us from Sovngarde now and then, we’ll haunt you.”

“That’s assuming Ysgramor doesn’t throw you out before then,” Aurelia said wryly, returning the embrace. “May Shor keep you.”

“And you. Next time you’re here, we’ll trade stories.” Galmar waved and turned back to Ulfric.

Kodlak squeezed her shoulder. “Consider yourself a Companion, Aurelia. You have stood beside us in honour and battle. Tell Farkas to keep true to the path of honour.”

“He doesn’t need to be told that. He stays true to it on his own.” Aurelia clasped his forearm. “Rest well, old man. Your duty is done.”

Kodlak nodded and crossed the Whalebone Bridge.

“Dragonborn.” Kin-Tatsuo, the first commander of the Dragonguard, approached her with the stiff Akaviri bow she barely recalled from childhood. “Our oath is fulfilled.”

“Yes, it is.” Aurelia sighed. “I’m one of the last of your blood. I think I have a paternal half-brother somewhere, but otherwise, I am the last of the Aurelii.”

The Akaviri shrugged. “You are or you are not. It matters not to me. My duty is done and we can rest now.”

He faded from view and with him went the Dragonguard, though many Blades lingered.

“It is time for you to return home,” Tsun said quietly before raising his voice in a Shout. “Nahl...Daal...Vus!”


	52. The Euphoria of Alduin's Defeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for grief and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, torture and war crimes.

“Bjarni. We must call a Moot.”

It was a measure of how much Bjarni had grown as a person since coming to Winterhold that he nodded, wiped his eyes, and got out of bed where he’d lain for two days. Though Suvaris certainly wasn’t mourning Ulfric Stormcloak’s death after what he did to the Grey Quarter, she was touched by Bjarni’s grief – and worried about the Stormsword with no leash on her. She recalled Sigdrifa’s time as Jarl-Regent, when resources were poured into the army and nothing left for the non-Nord civilians. She had no wish to see that again.

The Jarls were already gathered in Solitude for Ulfric’s funeral; they’d come expecting to elect him as High King. At the Winking Skeever they were laying good odds on Egil being chosen with Bjarni as a distant second; Gerdur of Whiterun and Argis of the Reach were a far third and fourth. For the sake of tact and diplomacy, the Reach’s rulers had chosen to keep their celebrations of Ulfric’s death within their own Hold before crossing over the next day.

Bjarni washed and trimmed his beard as Suvaris lay out new garb. He’d always favoured the saffron, ochre and cobalt geometric textiles of Morrowind over the drab brown, grey and blue favoured by the frugal (tight-fisted) Stormcloaks. It was… bold of her… to weave a new tunic and breeks for him, combining the Nord interlace with the dyes of Morrowind and trimming it with snow fox fur. His shirt was undyed cotton from Whiterun and Faryl had sourced the horker hide for his boots from the Broken-Tusks. Turquoise with saffron and ochre embroidery on black bands at neck, sleeves and hem, the breeks soft black goat’s wool. The snow bear cloak pinned with a silver brooch depicting the stylised three-pointed crown of Winterhold would be his concession to the winter winds.

Bjarni came out, wearing nothing but his skin as he dried himself, and blinked at her still being in his room. “You’re my Steward. You don’t need to act as my valet…”

His voice trailed off as he beheld his new garments. While Nords would wear black armbands for another six weeks, most ceased their wearing of mourning garb after a half-moon. Nord life was hard and fast, as was their mourning.

“I know it should have been ice-blue and white for Winterhold, but you suit the warm and vivid colours better,” Suvaris said nervously, dry-washing her hands.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“Faryl made the boots from waterproofed horker-hide lined with the rest of the snow fox fur,” she told him.

Bjarni finished drying his long sable hair. “I wouldn’t be Jarl without you two. I’m in your debt.”

“There is no debt,” Suvaris quickly said. “You could have left us in Windhelm after the Brotherhood’s attack.”

“You saved my life. You helped me sort out problems with Winterhold and smoothed over tensions with the College. If not for you, Thaena and Colette would have brained each other when we were stuck in the mine for those three days.”

“I was more worried your sister would set them on fire,” Suvaris joked wryly. “Are all Dragonborn so testy?”

“They’re not noted for the sweetness of their tempers. I think Aurelia was more frustrated because she kept on being thrown into other people’s business.” Bjarni sighed and reached for a loincloth. “Gerdur told me she’d flown to the east when Odahviing was trapped. But it’s been a week.”

“If she wins, we’ll know it. If she loses, we’ll know it. We should worry about what we can affect, not what we can’t change. ‘For you exist in your actions on others, you are known by exerting your will on the world’.”

“Boethiah’s Canticle from _The Velothi Scriptures_ ,” Bjarni observed, pulling on his breeks and socks.

“Your education wouldn’t shame a member of the Great Houses,” Suvaris told him in all honesty. “You’d have made a good Redoran.”

“Thank you. Sometimes…” He shook his head. “I wish my father had appreciated the gifts of the Argonians and the Dunmer. Talos certainly did.”

Suvaris sighed. “I can acknowledge your father’s greatness – to a certain extent. Mephala teaches us to give our enemies all due respect, after all. But I think it is a very good thing he never became High King. He reigned in Windhelm, he didn’t rule. Galmar and Jorleif and Ralof did all the work, then you and Egil took over when you were of an age.”

“Egil will be Jarl of Eastmarch. Even if I hadn’t been given the Winter Crown, the fact remains that the Thanes prefer a staid, serious fellow to a rabble-rouser like me, and Njada will be the strongest co-ruler of Windhelm for a very long time.” Bjarni laced up his shirt. “As for High King, that’s going to be an interesting choice. Only a Jarl may be High King and half of us are new-come to our thrones. Father earned it in the old way but…”

“Do not take this the wrong way but I pray your mother comes nowhere near the job,” Suvaris said fervently. “I remember when she was Regent of Eastmarch when your father was in prison. I have no wish to live through that again.”

“My mother’s a great general but absolutely no one, not even the most fervent Talosite, would vote for her as High Queen even if she qualified,” Bjarni assured her. “I’m thinking we can put her and her soldiers to winkling out the last Legionaries and Thalmor agents in the Imperial Holds. She’s good at that.”

“Mu los vomir! Alduin mahlaan! Sahrot thur qahnaraan! Dovahkiin los ok dovahkriid! Thu'umii los nahlot!”

If all the thunder in the world had been gathered in one place, it would have sounded like the words that rolled over Solitude like storm clouds on a wind. Suvaris gasped; she remembered Aurelia had been called Dovahkiin and that Alduin was the world-ending dragon she was meant to defeat.

For the first time since his father’s death, Bjarni was grinning. Before Suvaris could react, he grabbed her and kissed her in sheer delight, then released her with a flush and the beginnings of an apology.

Suvaris stilled those apologies with a kiss of her own. She could always blame the euphoria of the World-Eater’s defeat if someone should make something of it.


	53. A Dark Kind of Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for grief, emotional tauma and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, genocide and torture. It’s Moot time, folks!

Two days after the mourning of Alduin by the dragons heard across Skyrim, Aurelia returned bestride a dragon the colour of garnets and rubies, landing neatly in the street before the Blue Palace. Her robes were pristine, her cosmetics applied flawlessly and her black hair coiled into a braided crown with amethysts and pearls of pink, gold and cream. Egil had a feeling he was seeing the Curate of the House of Dibella today, not the frazzled, frustrated priestess juggling the needs and necessities of saving the world.

“Please stay,” she said to the red dragon. “This could be unpleasant with what I’ve learned over the past few days.”

“You would flee, Thuri?” the dragon rumbled.

“No. But I’d like to have some backup. Pity they’re not meeting in Castle Dour’s courtyard; we’d all fit there.” She scratched the dragon’s horns. “I’ll have someone send you a goat. That was a long flight.”

“For you, perhaps.” The dragon swung his baleful gaze in the direction of the Stormcloaks who’d come out of the Blue Palace. Egil put his hand up to forestall anyone going for a sword. “These joorre serve you?”

“I’m related to the big dark-haired one and the others serve him.” Aurelia pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh. “I don’t rule anywhere, Odahviing. Even if I wanted to, my oaths to Dibella forbid it.”

“It is not wise to cross the gods,” Odahviing agreed.

“Get the dragon a haunch of goat,” Egil ordered one of the guards. “Be civil. ‘Thuri’ means ‘my overlord’ – he’s acknowledged that Aurelia is his… Thane, I suppose. Treat him as a huscarl.”

“Yes, Jarl Egil.” The man bowed and vanished.

“You speak Dovahzul?” Odahviing asked curiously.

“My father was a Battle-Tongue,” Egil told the dragon. “Bjarni’s better at the language than I am, but I can hold a basic conversation.”

“Their father’s Ulfric. We share a mother,” Aurelia said tersely. “Is the Moot called?”

“Aye.” Egil wiped his hands on his pants. “It’s… tense. Father was the clear choice for High King; with his death, we’re in something of a bind.”

He led Aurelia through the palace to the great hall, where the Jarls were seated. “The dragon is the Dragonborn’s huscarl, Odahviing,” Egil announced to the crowd. “We will not be eaten by dragons this week.”

“So Alduin’s dead?” Sigdrifa asked harshly.

“Not dead, returned to His proper place in the time-stream. He was unmoored by an Elder… Never mind the metaphysics. What matters is that He will return at the proper time and place, not prematurely nor with the chance to rule Skyrim once more.” Aurelia clasped her hands as she stepped into the circle of chairs. Egil returned to his seat and Njada placed her hand on his shoulder comfortingly.

“First things first, I am pleased to announce that Ulfric Stormcloak, Galmar Stone-Fist and Kodlak Whitemane are feasting with Shor in the Hall of Valour. They lent their Voice and weapons to the defeat of Alduin alongside the Three Tongues and Dragonguard and Blades of Heaven’s Reach Temple.”

“Praise the Nine,” Bjarni said in relief, the words echoed by other Jarls. “So you did go to Sovngarde?”

“I even spoke with Ysgramor himself,” Aurelia confirmed. “I was given a boon from Shor, to summon a hero of Sovngarde to assist me in fights. From what Paarthurnax implied, I should be able to summon whoever I wish – if they desire to come.”

“Dragonborn, I’m Solaf, the new Jarl of Falkreath,” the plain-faced blond said after a moment’s silence. “In the ordinary run of things, you’d be Jarl because you’re Sigdrifa’s eldest, but… it’s frowned upon if a priest rules a Hold.”

“For which I am in agreement. I’ll probably settle down in the Markarth Temple and return to my priestly duties. Most of the dragons are likely to behave as my Voice is considered the strongest, the second-strongest dragon Paarthurnax could readily kill any of them, and the third-strongest is my huscarl. So there will be no argument from me about who sits on the Stag Throne.”

Solaf scratched his head. “I was gonna offer you a parcel of land, but if you’d rather not, I’ll pay you five thousand septims in wergild instead.”

Aurelia inclined her head. “Thank you, Solaf. The House of Dibella has been sorely neglected in Skyrim and the Temple needs some repairs.”

She brought her steepled fingers to her lips and blew through them thoughtfully. “In Sovngarde, I was made aware of certain information by High King Torygg and Quaestor Hadvar, which was corroborated by Ulfric and Galmar themselves. I don’t relish sharing this information, as it touches very close to home on both sides of my family, but before any Jarl is elected High King I believe it should be shared.”

“We have only your word,” Calder, Sigdrifa’s huscarl, said grimly.

“I will be able to summon each of them to corroborate my words,” Aurelia told the auburn-haired warrior. “That was Shor’s great boon to me for saving the souls of Sovngarde.”

“Torygg’s in Sovngarde?” Elisif gasped.

“He is, Jarl Elisif. He sends his love and tells you to move on when you must, for the good of Skyrim,” Aurelia said gently. “He died bravely with a weapon in his hand, so he feasts now in the Hall of Valour.”

Elisif wiped her eyes. “Thank you, Dragonborn. You have the freedom of the city, for what it’s worth.”

“Thank you. Solitude’s as lovely as the stories say.” Aurelia heaved a heavy sigh and clasped her hands once more.

“As for the information, knowing what I know about your ancestry, I think I know what it is,” Elisif continued, her tone suddenly hard. “I was with Torygg when Commander Maro delivered his report concerning the interrogation of a Dark Brother three years ago.”

“Ah, I believe I know what this is about,” observed Beroc, the Redguard Ambassador. “I had letters, under Rustem Aurelius’ seal, delivered to me two days ago. I’m given to understand some of them were procured from the ruins of the Falkreath Sanctuary.”

Bjarni sucked in his breath sharply and Egil began to feel a grim sense of foreboding.

“HUN KAAL ZOOR!” Aurelia’s voice cracked like lightning and the golden form of a plain-faced, heavy-shouldered Legionary appeared beside her. “Hadvar, tell the Moot what you told me.”

“Jarls.” Hadvar bobbed a stiff bow. “I hold no grudges in Sovngarde, for we are beyond them now.”

“So you’re the one who slew Ulfric at the door of Castle Dour,” Ralof said with a sigh. “You never were that good with a bow.”

“I had a Dunmer spotter. I knew we’d lost and I figured I’d take Ulfric with me.” Hadvar shrugged. “I don’t remember her face, but she wore Dark Brotherhood robes and managed to escape as the Stormcloaks arrived. But she cast Frenzy on them to make sure I couldn’t tell any tales.”

Suvaris, Bjarni’s Steward and consort-to-be, exchanged glances with her brother Faryl. “Gabriella. She’s a senior Dark Sister.”

Sigdrifa glared at her. “And you didn’t share this information with us before?”

“Given you drank regularly with Astrid, I’d have assumed you knew already,” Suvaris shot back coolly.

Egil’s foreboding grew into horrified realisation. “Stendarr’s mercy, Mother, you didn’t!”

“They were mercy contracts if you were captured!” Sigdrifa retorted. “Astrid damn well knew-“

“Astrid betrayed the Brotherhood and died for it,” Argis interrupted. “As for the contract on Ulfric, I think Madanach would be offended if you didn’t credit it to him. It was his last act as Ard Ri, to avenge the Reach’s dead using the Stormsword’s own tools.”

“An act my father would have gleefully assisted in, to cause my mother the maximum amount of grief,” Aurelia agreed with a sigh. “Ulfric and Galmar themselves weren’t surprised by it. I can summon _them_ too, if you desire.”

Laila and Idgrod, the senior Jarls, exchanged glances and nods. “Do it,” the Jarl of the Rift ordered.

“Hadvar, you are sent home with my thanks.” Aurelia rubbed her furrowed brow. “Nothing is ever simple with my family involved.”

“You come from a complicated lineage,” observed Hjalti, the new Jarl of the Pale. No one quite knew where the middle-aged Nord came from, but he’d taken the Star Throne from the doddering Skald and set himself up with Brina Merilis as Steward and spouse.

Aurelia called Ulfric and Galmar to the Moot and Egil gasped to see his father smiling, free of care and pain. “My boys. Both of you Jarls,” the late Jarl of Windhelm said warmly. “I should have told you more I was proud of you and that I loved you. You are the best of me and your mother, each in your own way. May the gods be with you.”

He turned to the Jarls. “You are free from the Empire. Don’t squander that which I won for you.”

“We freed ourselves, no thanks to you,” Kaie, Argis’ wife, said bitterly. “We only came here because the Reach can’t stand alone.”

Ulfric sighed. “I did much wrong there. I know the apologies of a ghost mean nothing but… I’m sorry.”

“I’m only sorry you went to Sovngarde,” Kaie retorted.

“Ard Ban-Ri, Ulfric risked real soul-death in fighting Alduin,” Aurelia chided. “I’m not asking you to forgive him, just to… let it go.”

“I’ll consider it, cousin.”

Ulfric finally gazed upon an ashen-faced Sigdrifa. “You killed me and Galmar. Oh, I’m sure you had some good reason for it and I applaud your foresight in planning so far ahead. It is a great pity that you were absent from my funeral, because I’d instructed Galmar to make certain you would never be in a position of unfettered power again. Draw your sword, Sigdrifa, and let us make an honest end of it.”

Egil gasped and Njada took his hand, horror in her own gaze.

“Ulfric,” Aurelia began, only to be silenced by an eloquent glance from Hjalti.

“I have a better suggestion,” the Jarl of the Pale said into the silence. “Have Sigdrifa answer for her crimes in the Reach. Ulfric is beyond their justice… but she is not.”

Bjarni finally found his voice. “You… had… contracts… on… all… of… us…”

“Mercy contracts, dammit! I didn’t want anyone to wind up like your father, tortured and tormented into breaking everything!” Sigdrifa protested. “It’s Rustem’s malice that had the ones on Ulfric and Galmar carried out-“

“No. We’d received a few requests for him.” Much to Egil’s horror, Rustem Aurelius sauntered into the great hall, the crowd parting for him like the seas before Talos, with his legendary dragonbone naginata across his shoulder. “Astrid had been suborned by the Penitus Oculatus. She sold us all out – even you, Sigdrifa. She tried to kill Bjarni on Maro’s orders.”

“You’ve got brass balls to walk into here after it was announced Ulfric was assassinated!” Laila snapped angrily.

“That wasn’t anything particularly personal and I had it done in such a manner as to see him and his beloved in Sovngarde.” Rustem nodded to the ghosts of Ulfric and the still-silent Galmar. “But you… oh, Sigdrifa, you’ve been a naughty, naughty girl who broke the cardinal rule: _don’t put anything in writing._ ”

“She’s mine,” Galmar growled.

“Actually, she’s the Brotherhood’s. I’m already moderately despised by you all, so it’s no skin off my back if you hate me a little more for killing the last Shieldmaiden or whatever the fuck she calls herself these days.” Rustem’s grin was empty and mad. “The backstabbing by you honourable Stormcloaks would honestly put the Bretons to shame. It’s been fun to watch and participate.”

“Father,” Aurelia said softly. “Must you?”

“I must.” Rustem’s expression was grim. “Sigdrifa put contracts on you and your brother Cirroc… ‘just in case’.”

Bjarni broke down and wept as Suvaris embraced him. Egil himself was too horrified to speak.

It was Njada who took a deep breath and spoke. “I name you _nithing,_ Sigdrifa. Your wergild is set at nothing. You are clanless. You are nameless. Eastmarch is closed to you. May the gods harry you to the death that you deserve.”

“ _Nithing_ , I name you,” Hjalti agreed. “The Pale is closed to you.”

“What is this _nithing_ business?” Kaie asked Argis.

“Basically, we’re declaring she’s lower than dogshit in the gutter and anyone may kill her with no consequences,” Argis told her cheerfully. “Incidentally, _nithing_ , all of that. Don’t come to the Reach, Sigdrifa. Your death will begin with fire ants and end with a soul trap.”

“ _Nithing_ , you are, forever and aye,” Laila said grimly. “I know you had a contract out on me. My new Steward Brynjolf told me.”

“ _Nithing_ you are, for you denied your god when you were faced with him,” Idgrod agreed gaily.

“ _Nithing_ ,” Solaf said soberly.

“I suppose you probably had contracts out on my family,” Gerdur said flatly. “Whiterun is closed to you, _nithing_.”

Sigdrifa gave Bjarni a beseeching glance but despite the tears on his face, his expression was as iron. “ _Nithing_ I name you. I’d wish you the sea-death, but no one wants you to become a sea-ghost.”

Egil managed to speak. _“Why?”_

“I did what I had to for Skyrim!” Sigdrifa bawled. _“I did what was necessary!”_

“You’ve always been very good at that,” Aurelia said softly. “I won’t declare you _nithing_ , because I know you were the product of brutality and the horrors of Cloud Ruler Temple. You are, for good or for ill, my mother. But that doesn’t mean I have to love or forgive you. It doesn’t mean I owe you anything. There is no need for me to damn you, because if you somehow leave this place alive, you are already damned.”

Egil buried his face in Njada’s shoulder as Rustem surged forth, given licence by the Moot’s reaction, and wept. There was the sound of metal hitting flesh, a gleeful cheer from Galmar… and then silence.


	54. Yellow Mountain Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, war crimes and child abuse.

Her mother was so much the smaller in death.

Aurelia patted the last of the dirt on Sigdrifa’s grave, her hands aching from using a shovel, and then set the tool aside to plant the rare yellow mountain flower on it. Yngvild had once been where the Shieldmaidens were trained and buried; destroyed in the Great War, it had been profaned by a perverted necromancer who was no match for Aurelia, Erandur and Gormlaith Golden-Hilt. All the dead women from Dawnstar were laid to rest, the necromancer thrown into the sea and his sickening diaries burned, and now Sigdrifa Stormsword, the last Shieldmaiden of Talos, was buried with the rest of her kind.

Aurelia interlocked her hands together, golden chimes ringing through the air, and the mountain flower bloomed as if it had been planted for a dozen years. Winter cold or summer heat would not kill it; so long as the earth and air were clean, it would bloom.

“I see Dibellan Arts extend to more than the sensual or erotic,” Erandur observed, impressed.

“I used to press flowers to be sold as tokens to worshippers during Heart’s Day,” Aurelia said, looking over her shoulder to the Priest of Mara. “I am very good with the little magics to make them last.”

“I could have dug the grave for you,” Erandur pointed out.

“It was my duty.” Aurelia touched one of the golden flowers with a sigh. “She was given away to the Shieldmaidens when she was six. The little I know of them, they were brutal. Sigdrifa didn’t know how to love, because she’d never been shown it. She didn’t know how to be merciful, because it had never been given to her. She treated others as tools… because that’s what she was to the Shieldmaidens.”

“Children live what they learn,” Gormlaith agreed. “She never reached Sovngarde.”

“You don’t know? Someone killed with a Blade of Woe is sent to the Void of Sithis,” Erandur told the hero gravely. “Rustem deliberately destroyed her legacy, her life and perhaps her soul.”

“I wish I could say he did it out of a desire to protect his children, but my father’s as petty a man who ever existed. He could have just killed her at any time, but he wanted her life to be in ruins. He and Delphine were soulmates.” Aurelia shook her head with a grimace. “The gods did me a favour by sending me to the House of Dibella. I was shown kindness and affection by those clerics who didn’t give a damn about the Emperor or his politics. I was allowed to grow into who I was meant to be, not moulded into what they wanted me to be. Granma Catriona says Anu weaves soul-stuff from the Void of Sithis. For my mother’s sake, I hope she’s right.”

They walked away from the grave. “How’s Winterhold?”

“Bjarni got the idea of rebuilding it as the religious capital of Skyrim, so I’ll be very busy for the next few decades.” Erandur allowed himself a rare smile. “Would you believe my first acolyte for the new Benevolence is Haelga from Riften? I don’t know what happened to her during her pilgrimage to Dibella’s shrine in Markarth, but it ended with her being thrown out by Mother Hamal. Haelga’s had a good long think about her actions and is seeking redemption.”

“Good. She violated most of Dibella’s scriptures. I hope Mara can show her the way.” Aurelia sighed, her breath frosted from the cold. “How’s everyone doing in Sovngarde, Gormlaith?”

“We fight. We feast. We fuck,” Gormlaith said succinctly. “Ysgramor did throw a platter at Ulfric and Galmar the other day when they stole his mead horn on their way to bed. Ulfric Shouted it right back at him. I think they’re all friends now.”

“Heh.” Aurelia managed a chuckle. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“That necromancer had to go and it’s always a pleasure to fight.” Gormlaith patted her on the shoulder before vanishing back to Sovngarde.

It was a long quiet walk back to Winterhold. Bjarni’s soldiers were active in keeping the coastal road clear, so there was little more than the odd wolf Aurelia was able to scare away with Kyne’s Allegiance.

“What of you, Dragonborn?” Erandur asked once they were past the newly reclaimed and purified Frostflow Tower.

“I’m returning to Markarth and the Temple there. You should see the backlog of work waiting for me, not to mention my original purpose in coming to Skyrim. I’ve seen the holy scriptures around here and they’re utterly woeful.”

“You aren’t staying with either of your brothers?”

“The wounds are still raw. My father was responsible for the deaths of their parents, directly or indirectly. I was the one who shared the information that condemned Sigdrifa. Neither doubts I did the right thing but… I’m not their sister. I’m the Dragonborn whose Voice shattered Skyrim, even when she didn’t mean to.”

Erandur nodded with a sigh. “I suppose you’re right. Just don’t let your regrets or theirs define you. I know the path only too well and I wasted many years because of my regrets.”

Aurelia nodded. “Thank you, Erandur. That’s why I’m going to bury myself in work until I can live with myself again. Temple routine will be good for me.”

“Yes. Work is good.” The Dunmer peered through the snow at the lights of Winterhold. “Ah, we’re nearly home.”

Behind them, snow fell on a yellow mountain flower bush and a lonely grave. Before them lay the light and warmth.

“Dibella says: Open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love,” Aurelia murmured, quoting the scriptures of the Goddess.

It was enough. It would have to be.


End file.
